Drabbles
by hannah.jpg
Summary: One-shots featuring a particular King of Rohan and one Princess of Dol Amroth. Most humorous, some romantic, and all squee-worthy.
1. Behind the Hedge

_A brief explanation: This is a collection of one-shots, all about Eomer and Lothiriel and how they might have met. These were originally posted on my tumblr (lothirielqueen), and are presently in the process of editing and crossposting here. Enjoy! Really, I insist you enjoy; these are not meant to be taking too seriously._

 _Also a special thank you to heckofabecca for kindly editing these one-shots for me 3 3_

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Lothíriel was all too relieved to escape the crowded stuffiness of the palace. The remedy was obvious: the cool solitude and silence of her father's famed gardens. Despite the increase of guests by a number upwards of five hundred or more, there was simply too much food and drink flowing freely in celebration of the end of the war. Privately, she rather thought her father's generous offer to entertain the various nobles and war heroes of Gondor was ill-thought indeed, but the lingering Northmen as well? And somehow, what seemed like dozens of others who did not fall into the categories of 'various nobles, war heroes, and Northmen' had thought to arrive at the palace as well. Wholly ridiculous—that she be driven from her own home to seek even a moment of peace!

Spring was fully-entrenched. The sun was bright and blinding, and the sea air was hot on her face. Summer was clearly not long in coming. Decidedly uncomfortable in her winter frock, she wove her way to the south, where carefully trimmed hedges grew in a tall maze. Her father's maze was a famous feature of Dol Amroth. The cleverest gardeners and engineers planned a new pattern every five years so that visitors could enjoy becoming lost often. This was to Lothíriel's advantage, for she knew that intoxicated soldiers or chatty guests would be unlikely to disturb her here. Finding their way through the eight-foot tall hedges was simply too much of a bother.

In the cool shade, Lothíriel began to feel invigorated, and she skipped around a bit, humming to herself as her irritation fled away. There were several places where fountains tinkled clear water, and rosebushes gave off a heady scent. Here, there no problems, only birdsong and the wispy sound of a sea breeze ruffling the foliage around her, and—

From a left turn corner, a hand shot out and grasped her upper arm painfully. She gave a little shriek as she was pulled thither, but a similarly large hand clasped over her mouth as she was drawn into a firm embrace, her apparent captor standing behind her.

"Shh!" An unfamiliar voice hissed in her ear. "If you make a noise, I shall be discovered!"

Trembling with fright, Lothíriel had no choice. His hold on her was too tight, though it preserved her dignity somewhat; her knees were weak and her mind dizzy from shock. She could not have stood herself even had she been allowed to.

Several tense moments, and then the grip on her was loosed. The man behind her sighed heavily before releasing her. Lothíriel found her footing and whirled around, fury building in her at this strange man for giving her such a scare, disrupting her peaceful walk, and now—perhaps most damning of all—how he was looking at her sheepishly, almost innocently! He had the look of a Northman; tall and well-built, with golden hair sweeping on past his broad shoulders. A neatly trimmed beard did not hide his strong jaw as much as it ought to have. His eyes were a very nice shade of green, even in the shade of the hedge. He did seem familiar, but Lothíriel could not remember him. There were so many Northmen around…

"I apologize," he told her before she could think of a scathing set-down. "I normally would not handle a woman in such a way, but I am desperate."

" _Desperate_?" Lothíriel forced through gritted teeth. "How could you be so desperate that you just—just _kidnap_ me in that manner?"

"It was not a kidnapping, exactly," he said, looking infuriatingly smug as he shrugged off her annoyance. "I took you nowhere. See, the situation is thus: I am avoiding someone, and if you had continued to prance around so loudly, she would have become curious of the noise and discovered me. I could not have escaped, see; it would have made even more of a racket. And I cannot find my way out of this ruddy maze!"

Lothíriel stared dumbly. " _She_?"

In response, the man pulled her further back down the walkway (much more gently this time), and with creeping footsteps he guided her down twenty feet or so. Then they moved closer to the hedge, and, following his example, Lothíriel peeked through the thick brambles to the other side, where a lonesome, middle-aged woman attired in black was wandering slowly around a carved marble fountain.

"Oh!" Swallowing a giggle and unable to repress a smile, she laid a hand on the man's arm and nodded towards the path in front of them. He understood, and they continued quietly until out of earshot.

"Do you know her?" he asked.

"Indeed," Lothíriel said with a smile. "She is my aunt."

"Lady Ivriniel is your _aunt_? But that means you must be—" The man's expression, previously anxious, now morphed into what could only be described as mortification.

"She is not so bad, really," Lothíriel continued. "And you have clearly discovered the best way to dissuade her lectures: hiding."

"But I—"

She looked at the man again, wondering where she had seen him before. "But who are you to have earned her attention? Generally she favors her relations as her, er—victims, as it were."

The man hesitated. "I—I am Éomer, princess."

"You have the advantage of me," Lothíriel said, significantly more relaxed now that she was clearly in no real danger. The situation was becoming more comical by the moment. "Éomer of what? I daresay every man and woman in the palace of late is a lord, lady, marshal, commander, captain, or a dozen other myriad titles. Even a king or two!"

He was frowning more now, and unimpressed by his manners though amused by them, Lothíriel lifted her brows as she waited for an answer. "I am afraid I fall into the last category, princess," he muttered at last.

"Oh!" Momentarily disconcerted, Lothíriel thought quickly. There were only two kings in residence: Elessar, and the king of the Northmen, whom she had met at the welcome feast, but…but… "I did not recognize you!" she exclaimed. "We have been introduced, I am sure of it."

"Indeed," Éomer said gravely. "I did not recognize you either, princess. The over-attired feasts have little in common with an afternoon in the gardens, evidently." His tone was bitter, and Lothíriel tilted her head briefly.

"You are dressed as one of your men," she said, motioning vaguely at his unadorned and nondescript riding clothes, which seemed to be the daily wear for Northmen. "That must be it."

"Must be," he mumbled. "Anyway—Lady Ivriniel has left. May I escort you—er, somewhere? I have no head for this maze; were I not desperate I would not have dared try to navigate it."

"I will escort you, then," Lothíriel smiled, and with a gesture began to lead him back the way they had come. "I have been wandering these mazes since I was a little girl."

Éomer's eyebrows creased at this, and so she hastened to explain how her brother had thought it massively amusing to take her for a walk in the maze and then happen to conveniently 'lose' her somewhere within. "A most cruel trick," Lothíriel told him. "But I rather think Amrothos was vexed that his status as the young darling of the court was taken by me. At least, that is how Father explains it. A princess holds more interest than one of three princes, after all."

"And so you learned to navigate the gardens early on," Éomer said. "Very wise. How old were you, exactly?"

"The first time…I was nearly six years of age. It was not until I was thirteen that I could find my way around very easily, however."

The king's expression turned into a grimace, and Lothíriel bit back another giggle.

"If you could do it when you were thirteen and younger, I—at an advanced age—should certainly be able to!" he growled. Their path wove north, away from Ivriniel.

"Not without practice," Lothíriel said. "That is necessary at any age! But I shall give you a worthy hint indeed: if you wish to escape a maze—any maze— _always turn left_."

"Left?" Éomer asked in surprise.

"It may take some time," she added. "But it will lead you out… eventually."

"Eventually… that is what I was afraid of." Éomer looked at her ruefully, though there was a hint of a smile about his lips. "I thought the vultures would be picking my bones clean by week's end. That, or I would have had to call truce with Lady Ivriniel."

Lothíriel laughed. "Why is it that she bothers you so?"

"Well . . . It is a rather long explanation, if you can bear it." His green eyes were hesitant, but if she was not mistaken (which she rarely was), there was a hint of pleading, too, as if he did wish to speak of it.

"We have plenty of time," she told him. "I estimate that we shall be free of the maze in a half-hour." And of course, if it became necessary, Lothíriel knew where they might accidentally happen upon a dead-end or two.

"I have not been king very long," Éomer said, his tone serious. "I was ill-prepared— _am_ ill-prepared, I should say. I have welcomed advice from Aragorn, from your father, and from anyone else more experienced than I. Your aunt is shrewd enough to guess the nature of my—er, discontent, and decided she can help as well."

"Even I could tell you that has little truth to it," Lothíriel said.

"I know that now!" he said fervently. "Your aunt—well-meaning as she is—has convinced herself and is seeking to convince me of the same—that my problems would be much alleviated by taking a bride."

"Why, that is terrible advice!" she exclaimed. "Even a most experienced bride, able to run a nation herself, would do nothing to fix your inexperience! It may even worsen the issue by giving you little chance to learn kingship yourself."

"An apt conclusion; mine is much the same. Though I have my pride to consider," Éomer said with a sideways glance. "I could not allow someone else to carry my mantle and still retain any self-respect."

"Very fair."

"And truthfully, I have never considered marriage. When I was younger, I was not confident enough that I would survive the war that I thought it prudent to marry. Recently, events have been happening so quickly and unexpectedly that the thought of taking a bride only fills me with more apprehension rather than relief."

"For such serious matters, preparation is essential," Lothíriel said, feeling wise. "And while I do not mean to belittle your concerns, I have experienced much the same in twofold. Firstly, that Aunt Ivriniel has been hounding _me_ to marry for nigh on five or six years, and second, I have had to manage preparations for the influx of hundreds of guests in my father's house with hardly any warning nor time to prepare. A blindsided blow is the most fatal, I hear."

Éomer was grinning now. "Yes, the unseen consequences can prove the most influential."

There was something in his tone of voice which made Lothíriel think he was not speaking of houseguests any longer, nor even her aunt. She looked away, clearing her throat awkwardly. She was fiddling with the pearl buttons on the sleeve of her frock, unnoticed until this moment, and she stopped, embarrassed.

"But now you have increased my own concerns," Éomer continued. "I did not realize that entertaining my men was a burden to anyone, let alone _you_."

"It is no large matter," she interjected hastily, suppressing the guilty thought that is _was_ a large matter; large enough to have her running from the palace to seek solace in the maze.

"It is too late, princess; you have guilted me, and that is the end of it." His eyes were laughing at her, though he kept his face grave. "We shall pack up and leave this very week. There is no use pretending I haven't duties elsewhere, anyway. I am only reluctant to admit it."

"But what of my feelings of fault!" Lothíriel exclaimed, mortification turning her beet-red. "By the Valar—I have very nearly uninvited my father's guests of honor! I am positively embarrassed!"

"Nay—I have claim on embarrassment. That I give so little thought for the well-being of my hostess!"

Lothíriel began to feel distinctly that he was teasing her, and lifted her head loftily.

He began to laugh at her expression, and as she flushed red again, he said, "I am being unkind! Do forgive me—I have little experience with ladies other than my sister."

She inclined her head. There was little else to say; they had exited the maze, and towering steps of marble which led to the large feasting hall loomed before them. Soon it would be time for supper, and Lothíriel would have to endure the guests another night. But it did not fill her with dread any longer. Perhaps she could enjoy Éomer's company. He was pleasant enough, in his own way, and it would preserve them both from her aunt.

"I have a meeting scheduled with Aragorn before the meal," Éomer said. He paused as they took the steps. She stopped as well, mystified by the sudden change in his expression. Then, "You have decided me, princess."

"I have?" Lothíriel asked in astonishment. "Of what?"

"I shall gather my courage and tell Lady Ivriniel once and for all that I have no intention of marrying at her bequest. I have issues to deal with in my own land, and a difficult role in which to step. But—" Here he lifted her hand to his lips, lingering in such a way that Lothíriel felt her breath catch in her throat. "After all is said and done—perhaps I can marry, though I will not do so for political reasons. For my own desires, however…" A final, rather mischievous grin, and Éomer took his leave.

Lothíriel stood rooted to the marble steps, feeling vastly confused though also equally convinced that he had just implied to her something important. She wondered what it was.

 _ **FIN**_


	2. To the Highest Bidder

"Breathe in just a bit more, my lady!"

Lothíriel obliged, sucking in until she felt that her navel met her spine, and with a grunt Modile secured the corset. A whoosh of dizziness had Lothíriel reaching for the mantel, and she drew in breaths long and slowly, waiting for it to pass.

"Here it is, my lady." Modile's voice was hushed, and Lothíriel turned to see her reverently unwrapping the gift from Queen Arwen which had been delivered just that morning.

But the sight of it turned Lothíriel's stomach, for she knew its connotation. As ignorant everyone thought her to be of her position, she was fully aware of what tonight was to be. A betrothal—no, a trade agreement, with feasting and dancing to make the entire thing seem less like a purchase. Lothíriel was the prime market fare for that evening.

Thought she had to admit, the silken folds of the queen's gift were quite nice. Perhaps there was something fey in the fabric, Lothíriel mused as she straightened the sleeves while Modile fussed around the hem; and it would not stick to her skin when she sweated like her other ball gowns did. That would be fair compensation. Looking at herself in the silver-gilded mirror, she felt oddly pretty in the pale-blue dress. Yes, it must have some sort of magic woven into it.

"We are running out of time; quickly now!" Modile pushed hard on Lothíriel's shoulders forcing her to sit at her vanity. There was nothing to do but worry while Modile secured her hair in a collection of ringlets and pinned several small white roses around her ears. Silver filigree earrings, a generous amount of rose oil applied to her neck, sturdy white slippers, and Lothíriel was lucky to snatch a sip of water before she was herded by Modile's unceasing energy to the banquet hall.

A hum of conversations, laughter, and music met her ears. Lothíriel's apprehension turned her stomach in knots as the king's doorward took her hand, leading her to the center of the great gates. Her father was waiting, and he received her in a delicate embrace.

"You look lovely tonight, Lothíriel."

"Thank you, Father," she said, taking his arm and forcing a rather brittle smile. "I hope I do you proudly."

But there would be no way to confirm whether she did act her part, for her seat was between two young lords, whom she assumed were her father's top contenders for her hand. The one on the left showed no interest in her, only in his meal, and the lord on her right plied her with inane questions during the meal. How she wished to be anywhere else! Lothíriel could nearly feel insanity creeping upon her, along with an intense desire to paint herself with custard and jam. No man would wed her then! Except perhaps she would gain the attention of the other lord that way. Best not to risk it.

She let her mind fly as much as she dared—dancing took little thought, as did the rare response required of her while her partners stared or spoke of ridiculous topics such as the weather or the war (both poor choices to gain her attention). There was a distant, pleasant look on her face, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she looked touched in the head. If it repelled suitors, well . . . Her father could not fault her. No man was bold enough to tell the Prince of Dol Amroth that his daughter was deranged.

During a country dance, she became dimly aware that her brother seemed to be trying to catch her attention from across the room. She sighed: would a dance with Amrothos be any better? He would likely tease her, and that she did not like one bit. But nonetheless, she asked her current partner to return her to Amrothos once the steps were ended (and not a minute too soon, either—this lord stepped on her foot no less than four times).

"Ah, sister!"

Lothíriel noticed that his hand twitched, and she very nearly took a step back. After so many years of him tugging at her curls (and never too gently), they both seemed to be finding it difficult to break habits. She glared at him, and he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"My friend would like a dance with you, sister."

Her attention turned for the first time to the lord by his side. Immediately she wondered why she had not noticed him before - he towered over nearly everyone else in the room, and his blond hair and beard made him even more distinct. A Rohirric lord, then. "If he would—which I rather doubt, he may ask me himself," she said, her delicate temper getting the better of her manners.

A small grin grew on the face of the Rohír, and to her surprise, he addressed her in Westron rather than his native tongue. "It would be an immense pleasure if you would give me the honor, _mín_ _síþwíf_ ," he said, holding out a massive hand towards her. She gulped, and with no small amount of effort, pulled herself back together.

"My lord," she said, putting her hand in his—rather elegantly, she thought. She allowed herself to be drawn into the next dance. They twirled around other couples, her avoiding his searching look. He did not speak. This grated on her nerves more than she might have anticipated; silence would have been appreciated with any other dancing partner. After several minutes of this, Lothíriel felt for the first time that evening that she would really rather make small talk than endure any more of this. "I apologize, my lord, but I cannot recall our being introduced," she ventured, willing herself to appear calm.

"We have not been introduced," he said, clearly amused at her discomfort. "I hope I have not committed a grave and unpardonable social error."

"Indeed not," she smiled. "But I would like to know the name of the man I dance with."

He grinned in return, and her stomach did an odd flip. Was it something she ate? "I am Éomer, _mín_ _síþwíf_."

"I—oh. Oh!" No amount of self-control could have stopped the red flush blooming on her face, which felt uncomfortably hot. Sweat beaded along her back and she scrambled for a proper reply. "I apologize for not recognizing you, sire, I—"

"It is of no concern," he cut through.

Significantly subdued, especially as he did not speak again, Lothíriel bit her lip, trying to concentrate instead on the sequence of steps. But then she grew curious.

"My lord, but why—" He rose his eyebrows at her earnest tone, and she nearly lost her nerve. "I mean to say, sire, why have you asked me to stand up with you?"

"Is that my grave social error, then? Asking the prettiest girl I see for a dance?"

"Well, no, it is simply that—surely you know the purpose of the feast tonight!" Exasperated, Lothíriel let her serenity slip for the barest moment before she squared her shoulders.

"To eat supper and enjoy a dance or two?"

Lothíriel could have laughed, so giddy she was with nervousness and relief. "If that is your purpose, sire, then might I say I hope the evening is to your liking!"

"Indeed." The pressure of his hand on hers tightened momentarily. "And I thank you for your concern. But why the suspicion? Do I sense an underlying purpose?"

"I confess myself surprised that dear Amrothos did not see fit to inform you himself."

"' _Dear_ ' Amrothos," Éomer grinned. "He merely told me I should dance with you. Nay, he positively coerced me."

Embarrassment flushed Lothíriel's features. "Coerced? My lord, I am so sorry—"

"Do not be," he said kindly, and a glance at his face showed bemusement.

She straightened her back and took a deep breath. "Sire, Amrothos is perfectly aware that my father intends to choose a husband for me at this very ball. It seems to me, and may I say I know him very well—that he thought to embarrass you, and I as well, by making it seem as though you are interested in paying the bride price."

"Paying the bride price?"

"Playing the game—to win the hand of the princess." Even the simple act of saying the words made Lothíriel's stomach knot in disgust.

"So that was his purpose." The king scowled. "And just this morning I made the error of calling him friend."

"You hold the advantage over me, sire, for I have the permanent misfortune to call him brother."

"He needs a good thrashing."

"I agree with you thoroughly. I am mortified, and I do ask you to accept my apology. I will, of course, explain to my father you have no intentions—"

"But why?" There seemed to be a steely glint in Éomer's eyes. "I would rather we beat Amrothos at his own game."

Lothíriel smiled wanly. "A fine notion, sire, but I would rather wish to spare ourselves further awkwardness."

"And where is your sense of fun, _mín_ _síþwíf_?"

Being raised by brothers, Lothíriel could not in good conscience refuse such a challenge. And so she smiled back at the king and asked, "How shall we beat him, sire?"

"Let us dose him with his own medicine, as they say."

"As in . . . ?"

"Do you see that lady by the refreshments?" Éomer whirled her about, and she caught a glance of a woman with ordinary features and mousy brown hair.

"Yes, that is Lady Lithlad. She has had a soft heart for Amrothos for years."

"I did suspect something of the sort," Éomer said. "She was staring at him earlier."

"He has never given her the time of day!" Lothíriel clucked her tongue. "Which is his loss, for I find her company perfectly engaging and agreeable."

"Amrothos has little patience for the female sex."

"You noticed that, did you?"

Éomer laughed. "And I am sure it has little to do with your sharp tongue. I think he ought to dance with Lady Lithlad."

"Why, that would be torture for him! What an exceptionally wonderful idea."

"I think I can maneuver him into it, if you agree to keep watch on him during the next dance. Do not let him slip away!" Their dance was ended, and with a conspiratorial grin and wink Éomer led her back to Amrothos. Lothíriel automatically squeezed Éomer's arm in excitement, before he bowed and disappeared into the crowd, reappearing a moment later to join the line of dancers, with Lady Lithlad.

"My, you're looking happy," Amrothos said, looking giddy and not at all noticing Éomer's choice of partner. "And by the conversation you two were having—as if no one else existed in the world! You looked as though you had known each other for years."

"Fear not, brother, we did not forget your existence," Lothíriel deadpanned. "I doubt anyone ever could."

Amrothos merely gave her a grin, procuring a glass of wine from a passing page. "May as well make the most of the party before Father makes you start dancing with bachelors again," he said. "I personally thought Lord Dulir was the best choice. And when I say 'best', I mean he's probably the least likely to get drunk and vomit over the parlor floor, even if it is because he's too frail from his rheumatism."

"Amrothos! How could you say such things?" Lothíriel said, aghast. "Am I not punished enough, having men wrangle over my hand without my consent? Must you terrorize me with thoughts of such a future?"

"Father would not allow it," Amrothos said. "I heard him speaking with Elphir earlier—Father doesn't like these Gondorian suitors any more than you do. They are all too young or too old."

Lothíriel frowned, deciding that she would speak to her father later. She suddenly had many questions, mainly about why she had to endure such a ridiculous ball if Father had no optimism of finding her a husband here anyway. She would have stalked away (perhaps even from the hall itself, could she manage it), but the thought of Amrothos receiving a measure of retribution kept her at his side, though she simmered in unspoken resentment.

What a relief it was when the music ended! It was scarcely a moment later when Éomer returned to them, Lady Lithlad on his arm.

"Princess! Surely you did not stand out of this dance?" Éomer's earnest and jovial countenance proved to Lothíriel that he was an excellent actor. Though perhaps he was overdoing it.

Stifling a smile, she answered, "Indeed, my lord. My brother has humiliated me most strongly by refusing to take me to the floor."

"A shame! May I rescue you from such abject embarrassment?" During this exchange, Éomer had extracted himself from Lady Lithlad, gently pushing her towards Amrothos, who was watching with no small amount of confusion.

"I would be most grateful, my lord!" Lothíriel smiled.

"Excellent. Perhaps Amrothos will find the manners to escort this kind lady? I would not want to abandon her."

Amrothos's mouth fell open. "Now look here, Éomer—"

"Thank you, Amrothos. Princess?" The plan was going along swimmingly, as Amrothos was forced to accept the blushing Lady Lithlad's hand.

Lothíriel accepted Éomer's arm, feeling a surge of gratification as they left the mismatched pair behind them. He held her tightly as they began dancing once more, though they were silent.

"Are you avenged, _mín_ _síþwíf_?" the king inquired after some time

She thought for a moment. Perhaps the satisfaction was not so complete as she had hoped. "I feel guilty," she said at length, catching a view of the couple as they maneuvered through the steps. "We have forced him into the same misery I must endure. And poor Lady Lithlad—I cannot imagine how crushed she must feel, knowing that she has contributed to his suffering. I fear she now suffers, too."

"I doubt that," Éomer said, his tone dry. Lothíriel was on the verge of questioning his statement, but he twirled her around so that she could see her brother more clearly.

Amrothos was looking far more happy than he had been standing by the wine, and Lady Lithlad was as infatuated as ever. Before Lothíriel swung around again, she saw Amrothos throw his head back and laugh.

Éomer looked as if he might laugh, too, as Lothíriel returned her attention to him, flabbergasted. Truly, she had no words!

"I hope your conscience is appeased," he said.

"Certainly not! Why should he be so happy, while I am still in my miserable situation?"

The king chortled. " _Mín_ _síþwíf_ , I have never met a woman so resigned to be a martyr as you are. Is it truly such a bad thing, that you are to be married?"

"No! Merely that I have no choice in the matter."

"Ah. Do you not believe your father would endeavor for your happiness in his choice?"

"My father does not share my needs and desires. He seeks a man to provide me with a home and comfort; I seek affection and purpose."

"Have you not told him so?"

"It would not signify. I feel nothing for any of the Gondorian men here tonight." Her choice of words was deliberate, and she could not stop herself from blushing at her own lack of tact. Surely he saw straight through her; he had already shown a talent for guessing her feelings during the course of the evening.

Éomer did not speak again for the remainder of their dance. Were Lothíriel not so preoccupied with her own thoughts she might have wondered if she had contributed to his silence. After the final steps, he took her arm and said, "I see your father looking for you. I shall return you to him."

Lothíriel nodded, at once wishing that he would not leave her and that she could escape his presence forever. She would never forget his thoughtfulness, helping her to get even with her brother. Whom, she saw, was leading Lady Lithlad to the terrace, both looking horrifically twitterpated. The sight deepened her melancholy. What a terrible evening this had been!

Imrahil kissed her cheek, trading a few pleasantries with the king of Rohan before Éomer took his leave. Her father tucked her hand into his own, and Lothíriel noticed a very satisfied expression on his face before remembering what Amrothos had mentioned earlier. "Father," she said quietly as he led her towards the refreshment table. "Amrothos said you did not care for any of my suitors."

He paused a moment before answering, "That is not strictly true."

"And why have I been forced into this ridiculous dancing, if you do not _strictly_ care for any of these suitors?" Lothíriel's voice hardened, and her father winced as her grim on his arm tightened.

"As I said within Amrothos's hearing, which he may not have been specific about," Imrahil said, and they stopped. A servant gave them each a goblet of wine, and her father turned her back to face the crowd of dancers before adding in a low tone, "I said I cared nothing for the _Gondorian_ suitors."

The implication made Lothíriel's stomach sink, and her goblet began to tremble in her clenched hand.

"You looked very well with King Éomer—do you find his company pleasing?" Imrahil's tone lightened, as if he were inquiring about nothing more important than the weather. Lothíriel hid a scowl before answering.

"Not anymore."

"Such a shame," Imrahil said, and then gave a bark of laughter. "He found you pleasing enough at our family supper not two nights' past. Otherwise he would not have gone through the hassle of enlisting the help of Amrothos to gain your attention. Where is that boy, anyway? Did I see him disappear outside with Lady Lithlad?"

If Lothíriel saw Éomer again, she would kick him.


	3. Tell Me How (Part One)

_(will be completed in two parts)_

 _(a/n: this is a short idea that I had that somehow spawned its own AU. A much longer AU. But let's enjoy this two-parter before we delve into the second, monstrous one ;)_

* * *

 _3017 TA_

Éomer's gaze hardened as he stared at the cold eyes of the man across from him. Anger was coiling in his stomach like a snake, but something his uncle had said long ago echoed in his mind: "Think first, speak last."

It was good advice, especially considering that the impulsive words on the tip of his tongue would have ruined what little relations remained between Rohan and Gondor. That could not happen; the stakes were too high.

"Thank you for your time, Lord Denethor," he said in clipped tones, and inclined his head in farewell. "I regret this did not end differently."

Denethor's eyes never left Éomer's. "Farewell, young marshal."

Éomer turned on his heel and strode out of the enormous marble hall, his heavy footsteps echoing in the eerily empty space. Once he reached the door, Éothain, standing diligently as always, turned and followed Éomer out. Éothain said nothing, despite having witnessed the entire spectacle, but that was well; Éomer remained too furious to speak rationally.

He shouldered through the door to his guest chamber, breathing heavily through clenched jaw, only just retaining any semblance of control. Then he turned to Éothain, waiting at the door. "We depart tomorrow," Éomer said. "See to it."

Éothain bowed, and left.

Off came Éomer's breastplate, and his vambraces and mail. He remembered dressing before the audience with Denethor, thinking a strong appearance would increase the likelihood of the steward's cooperation and willingness to renew the Oath of Cirion. I have been a fool, Éomer though scathingly, tossing his scabbard and sword onto the neatly made bed. Nothing could convince him of—

"You cannot trust Denethor."

Éomer started at the softly spoken words, and he grabbed his sword reflexively, whipping around. The sword was halfway drawn before he saw the speaker, who was shrouded in shadows behind the door. A pale face peeked out, and a level look from dark eyes met him.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice rough.

The speaker stepped forward, and his grip on his sword faltered. A girl! And not an ordinary girl, he would wager—this one was nearing womanhood; tall, stately, and dressed in fine black velvets. The color did not suit her pallid cheeks, and her face was framed by dark hair.

"It does not matter," she said. Her hands were clasped before her, white-knuckled and stiff. There was a tenseness about her, Éomer noticed. Her eyes were too bright; he saw despair lurking far beneath. He caught his breath; not simply because of this girl's prettiness—for she was undoubtedly pretty and undoubtedly nobility—but because he recognized the same desperate wretchedness that haunted his sister.

"I cannot trust Denethor," he drawled, shoving his sword back into place with a swish. "Then who, Lady?"

She lifted her chin as if in defiance, perhaps of her uncle's rule. "His sons. His brother by marriage; his nephews."

"I do not suppose any are here at present."

The girl's lips turned downwards. A whisper: "No."

Astonished, Éomer saw the shimmering of tears in her eyes. But she did not acknowledge them, and continued to speak, her voice stronger now.

"You have allies in Gondor," she said. "Denethor believes otherwise, which is just as well. Your allies would assist you, if they could …" She trailed off, but the meaning was clear. His allies could not help. The journey to Gondor had been in vain, and by the he returned home, Gríma could have carried out any amount of mischief …

"What is your name, Lady?" Éomer asked. He threw his sword onto the bed again, without looking away from this girl, and tugged at the laces at the neck of his tunic; he felt as though he could not even breathe properly.

"I am Lothíriel."

"And what is Lady Lothíriel doing in Lord Denethor's house, if she mistrusts him so?"

"I have no choice. Lord Éomer—"

He interrupted gruffly. "Just Éomer will do."

Lothíriel's head tilted slightly to the side, as if she were measuring his person and character in her mind. Éomer's skin tingled briefly; her gaze was all too direct and knowing for his comfort. He could only hope she was not Denethor's spy, only pretending to dislike her uncle …

"Just Éomer," she said. "You have come to Gondor to seek aid. Rohan is crumbling. But you are not aware, I think, that however unmarred the surface, Gondor is in the same danger. There are many who would help you and your uncle, but they cannot. Not because they want to see you fall, but because they are falling, too.

"My father expels Corsair attacks from Umbar; pirates are raiding cities along the coast and killing everyone in sight," Lothíriel said, her voice hardening. "Boromir defends Osgiliath, and Faramir keeps watch in the woods of Ithilien. My brothers have been fighting on the sea for nigh on five years; I have not seen them …" Her voice wavered slightly, and then she lifted her chin. "Éomer, I am sorry. That is all. There is nothing that can be done."

Éomer let loose a deep sigh, running his fingers through his hair. Then Denethor's refusal to renew the Oath was only a part of it; Lothíriel was speaking of matters far worse. Rohan was alone.

"If I have informed you of this, and you may profit from it, then my confinement has not been in vain." Lothíriel's voice had softened.

"Confinement?"

"Denethor keeps me here against my will." A wry smile crossed her face. "My father was becoming too outspoken in favor of open war against our enemies. The interment of his only daughter is an effective guard against my father's supposed war-mongering."

Éomer scowled, his disgust at Denethor multiplying tenfold. "Then run away," he said impulsively. "Steal a horse and—"

But Lothíriel was shaking her head. "I am watched, nearly every moment."

"Then I can smuggle you out; my men and I are departing the city tomorrow, we can disguise you as a soldier and—"

A shrill, humorless laugh. "Oh, Éomer, you are certainly a stranger to my uncle, then. You are watched, too."

He glanced around the room, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up.

"Not now," Lothíriel added. "I have enough power to ensure that we could speak privately." The light in her eyes, so desperate and so miserable, was dimming, and her shoulders sunk. She was wringing her thick skirt in her hands. "I am suffocating," she said in a low voice; he could barely hear her words. "If I can somehow aid against our enemies, then I will not give in to despair. My place is with my people! Not here … and yet; and yet …"

The lady's affinity to his sister sharpened. Cold anger and regret seized Éomer; his temper, so dangerously close to overflowing from his audience with Denethor, cried out to harm the man, to kill him for his cruelty to this girl. She could not be any older than eighteen years, he guessed; too young to be used in vile politics.

He walked to her then; slowly, unsure … Lothíriel's eyes lifted to meet his as he gazed down at her. Hopelessness was etched into every line of her face, and suddenly feeling it very important that she smile again, Éomer seized her hands roughly in his own.

"I—I can offer no words of comfort," he said. "For none live within me. But …"

"If we allow the darkness to cloud our minds, the enemy has won already," Lothíriel said simply. "My uncle has proven that case quite thoroughly."

Wanting to do something, but not knowing what it might be, Éomer brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them. "You have heartened me, Lady," he said. "I would that you not fade into anguish."

Another smile, this one transforming her entire face into something quite beautiful. "As would I, Éomer. I—I will not forget your sincerity nor your kindness soon." Gently, Lothíriel extracted her hands, and he was left feeling empty. She lowered her head in farewell, and then turned for the door. Her soft footsteps made no noise, and even the sound of her swishing skirt seemed muted. He no longer wondered how she had snuck into his chamber. Éomer stared at her back, where her long hair hung, shining darkly. Then the corridor swallowed her form entirely.

"Farewell," he murmured, though there was no one to hear it.

* * *

 _to be continued…_


	4. Tell Me How (Part Two)

_3019 TA_

The great hall of Merethrond could not have been any more different than what he remembered. Banners hung from marble pillars, and flowers in vases adorned every empty surface. Many extra tables, laden with food and drink, had been set up along the perimeter. Instead of cold emptiness, the hall bloomed with color and life as hundreds of people crowded around each other, dancing and talking and laughing—all in celebration.

Truthfully, Éomer had never felt less like celebrating. A deep, aching wound of grief and pain was festering somewhere in his chest, and the sight of happy, carefree guests only made it sharpen. Perhaps in time he might remember this particular spring as one of victory and renewal, but not tonight.

But he played his part, at least as best he could. He was sought for by nearly everyone: men to speak of politics or the war, women, their hair shorn short in remembrance of their fallen brothers and fathers, for a coveted smile, and the few children around simply to stare at him in awe. None of which, Éomer was sure, that he deserved.

The night wore on sluggishly. No one seemed eager to break the spell of excitement, and the tables of food were removed so that there might be more room for dancing. He was not keen on participating, but the idea of appearing as aloof as he remembered Denethor did not seem quite the thing. So Éomer plastered on a smile, greeted the ladies and attempted to divide his attention fairly.

Sometime around midnight he began to lose his focus. His mind wandered, looking about the hall, unseeing, above his dancing partner's head. The steps were automatic. The grief was a dull burn. He missed his cousin, he missed his uncle, he missed his sister...he would visit her at the Healing Houses tomorrow. That, at least, could be remedied.

Near the back of the hall, where candelabras lit both the dimmest corners and the pathways to the gardens, something caught his eye. Éomer twirled his partner around a bit too violently as he looked again. His brows furrowed, blinking at the faraway darkness. He thought he recognized the figure he saw, and a strange feeling burst in his chest.

Of course Lothíriel would be here. She was Gondorian nobility, after all, and Éomer had conversed with her father and her brothers during the evening. In fact, it had been her advice that had led him to trust Imrahil so quickly during the war, and he had rather sought out any information of this princess and of her well-being that he could, during recent weeks. But he had not seen her until that moment.

That particular song seemed to last a life age.

Once his partner was properly disposed of, Éomer strode towards the back of the hall with purpose. He was fortunate; Lothíriel had not moved. In fact, as he approached, her dark eyes met his; surely he could not imagine the air growing thicker the closer they were . . .

He stood in front of her, unable to speak. The girl he had met was a girl no longer; vitality and the blossom of womanhood suited her. Though she remained pale, color flooded her cheeks and the swells of her breasts at his scrutiny. Her pale-blue silk dress was perhaps the reason he had not recognized her earlier, it was a far cry from her previous mournful attire. His breath caught as he noticed her hair—a mass waterfall of curls no longer, it was cut short and brushed against her bare shoulders, glinting red in the candlelight.

Impulsively, Éomer reached out to touch the ends of her hair, the silky strands falling from his touch as if nothing at all. He swallowed and lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"Surely not your uncle," he said, his voice hoarse.

"My cousin."

Her expression remained as hard and unhappy as he remembered. A sinking feeling in his stomach gave him pause, and he blurted, "Will you walk with me, Lady?"

Her eyes were cautious. "Walk, my lord?"

"I am tired of dancing."

Lothíriel paused, blinking slowly, and then nodded. Éomer took her hand—there was an odd spread of goose pimples across his neck when he did this—and together, they made for the doorway toward the gardens. The light of the stars was bright, and the full moon shone down on the pathways and made them easily to navigate. The heady scent of new blooms was in the air, and Éomer began to feel lightheaded.

He did not know what to say. There seems to be words and words which needed to be spoken between them, but none sprang forward. That he was sorry for her cousin's death. That she had been right; there were many friends of Rohan in Gondor. That her father was as loyal as he had hoped. That he had worried for her. That he had thought of her, nearly every day after their meeting, and when darkness had crowded around him, it was only the thought of her face and her voice that had sustained him . . .

"Éowyn told me that you were well." Lothíriel's voice was small, hesitant. She glanced up at him, her skin illuminated by the moonlight. Éomer was forced to look forward before he could form a sentence.

"I did not know that you had met," he said.

"Yes, I met her in the Healing Houses when I was visiting my cousin." A pause. "They . . . are very well-suited for each other, I think."

Éomer thought so too, but could barely fathom what it meant. All he knew was that Faramir's company had driven the shadows from Éowyn, and for that, he was forever in the steward's debt.

He wondered why the same pall had not left Lothíriel.

"I was sorry to hear of your uncle," she continued. "And—and your cousin. I cannot imagine the pain you. . ."

His grip on her hand tightened. "Do not," he said roughly. "Do not imagine."

She said nothing to this, only nodded.

"I searched for you," Lothíriel said, so quietly that the dim breeze through the hedges nearly carried her voice away. "After the battle on the Pelennor. I—well—I . . . I only wanted to . . ."

Éomer stopped their course, turning to face her. He lifted her chin, and fearlessly she met his stare, the dark depths of her expression unreadable. Then, strangely, as if through their touch he understood her surging unhappiness, her longing and desperation . . . She had yearned for him, too. And though the gloom had been swept from the land, it remained in her soul.

Perhaps he only understood her because she was reflecting his own feelings.

He lowered his head and kissed her.

At once, like a sudden rush of spring breezes and warmth, the lingering darkness was swept away. Her skin flushed with heat underneath his fingers, and as she leaned into the kiss he wrapped his arms around her. Her lips were soft, her breath was warm, and a sigh vibrated in her throat. The intensifying sensations Éomer was experiencing were completely new, almost alien . . . how long had it been since he kissed a woman? And when had he ever felt so much attached to a simple kiss?

She broke the kiss at last, her breathing ragged, and they remained tightly entwined. Though it was midnight, it seemed to Éomer to be as bright as the noon day, and he could not help grinning broadly at the flushed woman whose face was so close to his own. Her eyes were no longer dimmed with misery, but sparkled with the reflection of the stars above. Lothíriel was smiling, too.

"I never thought . . ." She trailed off, and then closed her mouth.

"Nor did I," Éomer said, and set her down gently on the pathway; somehow he had lifted her into the air during their kissing. She rested her head against his chest with a sigh, and he held her, running his fingers through her beautiful shorn hair.

The pain and grief of losing his uncle and cousin were growing distant. Not completely healed—that would require more time—but in this moment, a hope for the future, previously unseen, was taking root.

"Well," Lothíriel murmured after a few moments. "I do believe that now I understand exactly what Éowyn spoke of."

Éomer did, too.

* * *

 _Fin! As always I appreciate the feedback from every one of you, even if I'm too scatterbrained to sit down and reply to all of them (I'm sorry!). Love ya'll ;)_


	5. The Soldier and the Ostler's Daughter

_A/N: Happy Birthday to me! I'm doing it Hobbit-style and giving away as much as I can today. And for my awesomely wonderful friends and followers **—** a fic, of course ;) Enjoy!_

* * *

 _3019 TA, Minas Tirith_

Éomer was so distracted by his own thoughts that he did not realize that someone else was visiting his horse until he was halfway through the stable.

A woman stood on a mounting block outside of Firefoot's stall, scratching his chin and murmuring to him indistinctly. She was dressed in travel-stained trousers and a tunic, and two black braids hung down her back. As he watched, she reached into a satchel hanging from her shoulder and produced a dark ball, which she offered to the horse. Firefoot's greedy lips snatched it right up.

"Oi!" he called, annoyance surging. How could she think it acceptable to feed another person's horse? Did she not understand anything of propriety? That she could be giving Firefoot something that would make him ill?

She jumped at his voice and whirled around. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and she bit her lip in guilt. She had a pretty face, Éomer noticed, but that hardly signified.

"What is it?" she asked, appearing at once innocent and confident. A strange mix.

"It is a general rule not to feed other people's horses without permission," Éomer said blandly, and stepped closer. Firefoot whinnied at him in disgust as his master had brought no treats, and he scritched the stallion's ears.

"Oh—I see," the woman said. Her eyes were wide, anxious. And a very beautiful grey. "I did not realize; there is no such rule where I am from. But Rohan must be different. You—you will not tell your King, will you?"

"My King?"

"Yes, the King of Rohan. This is his horse, no? I heard the stablehands talking . . ."

"Indeed it is."

Evidently this woman did not know of Éomer's identity. But how could she? He wore the same breeches and riding boots as any common soldier. He hid a grin. "I shouldn't think the king will mind too much," he told her. "Only if you spoil his horse too much, or rile him up. What are you feeding him, anyway?"

"Oh, it is only something we feed the horses back home." She produced another ball from her satchel to show him, giving it to Éomer for him to inspect. "It will not hurt him," she added, sounding almost cross. "We make it from oats, honey, apple, and carrots. You can try it, if you wish. It is perfectly edible for humans. In fact, many soldiers take these treats on campaigns for both them and their mount to eat."

 _We_ make it, she had said. Likely she was the daughter of an ostler or stablehand then. Éomer had not been aware that the Gondorian ostlers had such fetching daughters. "And where is home?" he asked, and offered the treat to Firefoot. It disappeared posthaste.

"Dol Amroth. We have come to the city celebrate the end of the war."

"Naturally."

"We only just arrived this morning; I could not help myself when I saw this horse," she confessed, and then smiled shyly up at him. "This is the most magnificent horse I have ever seen! His lines are perfect and his coloring so gorgeous, and he is so beautifully groomed compared to—er—some of the others." Her last words trailed off vaguely, and she waved a hand around the rest of the stables.

Éomer grinned. "Don't you think that's the king's prerogative?"

"Oh! Likely it is. As if such a handsome horse could belong to anyone but a handsome king." The woman was talking faster now, her eyes shining as she continued to pat Firefoot's neck. The horse was stretching his head out towards her, clearly enjoying the attention.

"What does that mean?" He was definitely amused now.

"Only that—well," She looked sheepish. "I have heard that the new king of Rohan is the handsomest man of eligibility in the entire city."

"Oh?"

"My brothers told me. They told me that every time he enters a room, at least two or three ladies immediately faint. Though," she added, brows furrowing in thoughtfulness. "I suspect they were teasing me."

Unfortunately, her brothers had been only too accurate. Éomer felt his ears turn red as he remembered an instance a few days earlier when a lady in the street had conveniently swooned straight into his arms. He could not have very well let her fall on the ground, after all. "And who are your brothers?" he asked quickly. "Might I know them?"

"You may! They are Swan Knights. Did your people not fight alongside them?"

"Indeed. I found the Knights both doughty fighters and humourous companions."

Her smile broadened, revealing two charming dimples in her cheeks. "That they are!" she said. "Though sometimes my brothers fall more in the 'humorous' category than 'doughty.'"

Éomer chuckled, and a moment of silence followed as the woman ran her fingers through Firefoot's mane with a great deal of affection. The stallion's head drooped slightly in pleasure, which entertained Éomer all the more.

"You seem to handle horses rather well," he said. "Have you your own?"

"Oh—I did," Her expression shadowed, and her lips fell downwards in a frown. "I gave her to the war efforts several weeks ago; the cavalry was running low on mounts. Too many had died. So I donated my mare, and . . . she was killed. At the Black Gate."

"I am sorry."

"It is worth the sacrifice, though it was difficult at the time." The woman blinked away a few tears and forced a smile. "I am happy to have done my part, even if it was a small one."

"Nonsense! Every sacrifice is worthy of remembrance, no matter now small. I commend you on your sacrifice." Éomer gave an elegant and rather grandiose bow, which made her giggle.

"That is kind of you," she said, her eyes wrinkling at the corners with her broadening smile. "I did not expect to find such sumptuous manners in a stable!"

He grinned; this woman was really too charming. "Perhaps that is the difference between Gondor and Rohan, then."

"Perhaps. Though not one that the Lady Eowyn mentioned to me."

"Eowyn? You have spoken to her?" Éomer was momentarily taken aback.

"I did, only this morning. I visited the Healing Houses to see my cousin; he was wounded in the war. I happened across her; she was most engaging." She smiled, and then paused. Then, "Do you know Lady Eowyn? She is from your land, after all."

"Indeed, I do."

"She fought valiantly." Her voice had grown quiet. "But she is also kind. I have never seen such a beautiful, pale complexion. She is the sister of your King, no?"

"She is."

"Of course! Then it likely _is_ true that the King is handsome enough to make ladies faint." The woman obviously found this hilarious, and she laughed. "I expect I shall see him tonight at the banquet. I think I will arrive early, so as to watch the reaction that his entrance has upon the ladies of the court. I suppose they shall all topple over like flowers in a strong breeze."

Éomer burst into laughter. The ridiculousness of the situation, as well as the one she was describing to him, was too much for him. He could imagine that this woman might feel a bit embarrassed if she knew who exactly she was speaking too, but he couldn't care. He was enjoying himself too much; to simply be an ordinary person speaking to another ordinary person. It had been many days since he felt so light-hearted, and the unhappy thoughts that had driven him to seek Firefoot's company in the first place were fleeing away.

Several moments passed together in companionable mirth, and with a final sigh, the woman rested her arms on the door to the stall, gazing at Firefoot. Éomer leaned one shoulder casually against the wall, watching her. "Do you not think you will faint as well?" he asked, grinning.

"Me? I have never fainted," she said, and glanced at him with a small smile. "It will take more than a handsome king to do so! As you can see, I have endured the company of one—er—young Rohirric soldier—I am referring to you, of course—without suffering any ill effects. And surely you are more congenial than a king!"

"I daresay!" He began to wonder that she was attending the banquet that night; Éomer had thought it was only for nobility. And ostlers' daughters, too? Perhaps she would be serving food in the capacity of a servant. The thought dimmed his happiness somewhat, and his smile faded. This woman had a far stronger spirit than he expected of a serving-maid.

"There you are!"

The sudden shout from the entrance to the stables caused both of them to jump. Éomer turned around guiltily, seeing Amrothos glaring at them with his arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently.

"I was looking all over for you," he snapped. Éomer felt that this was a bit harsh; he had, after all, informed his friends that he had intended to see to Firefoot, and that his horse was settling in well. He glanced at the woman, suddenly wondering at her reaction to Amrothos's appearance. Though she did not know Éomer for a king, if she was from Dol Amroth she would surely know Amrothos as the son of the prince. To his surprise, her face had paled, though her brows were drawn together angrily.

"I am sorry," she muttered. "I must go."

"But—" Éomer did not know what else to say, and stared dumbly at her back as she hopped down from the block and strode out of the stables, not deigning to give Amrothos either a curtsey or indeed, any other acknowledgement. This surprised Éomer, but not Amrothos.

"If you plan on attending tonight, you had best prepare," the prince said to him, his voice less snappish now as he regarded Éomer, now looking more curious than irritated. "Else you will only have time to bathe in cold water."

"Well—thank you for the warning." Éomer was slightly disappointed at Amrothos's interruption. He had enjoyed flirting with the strange woman more than he had thought.

"See you tonight, then." Amrothos turned on his heel and left.

Firefoot snorted, blinking towards the entrance as if wondering where his new friend had gone. Éomer had no response.

* * *

 _Later that night_

Éomer blinked in the bright light the setting sun which blazed through the western windows of Aragorn's grandest feasting hall. Hundreds of people filled the hall with their heated bodies and ripe scents, and the din of countless conversations rang in his ears. He felt unaccountably nervous; the words of the woman in the stable continually came back to him, and he could not help but wonder if there would be any fainting ladies upon his entrance.

Béma, he hoped not.

He nodded at his men who had entered with them, and taking the signal, they dispersed in search of ladies or wine. With increased anxiety about fainting ladies that might happen across his own path, Éomer edged along the eastern wall, unwilling to move towards the center of the hall.

"Éomer! Oi, Éomer!"

He cringed at the sound of Amrothos's voice—had he not harassed him enough today?—and he saw the prince's hand waving above several heads. Forcing a smile, Éomer strode towards him, ignoring the feminine simpers aimed at him from over fans and under eyelashes.

Amrothos was richly dressed in the blue and silver of his house, appearing effortlessly elegant against the background of pomp and wealth as Éomer never could. To his surprise, he saw as he approached that Amrothos was standing with a very pretty lady who looked vaguely familiar. He wondered where he could have seen her before. Éomer clasped Amrothos's arm, and then bowed low to the lady.

"Of course you have already met my sister, Lothíriel," Amrothos said.

Had he? Éomer looked up curiously at Imrahil's daughter. He had heard much of her. But as he met her startlingly grey eyes, he felt a jolt in his gut. The woman from the stables! But . . . surely not. How could it be?

Her mouth had fallen open slightly as she stared at him. Éomer straightened awkwardly. She was wearing a stunning dark blue frock, which fell in graceful folds from her trim waist and revealed shapely, pale arms from the sleeves split at the elbows. Her hair was no longer bound in plaits, but fell down her back in waves of ebony and set with a silver diadem.

"Your sister?" Éomer asked hoarsely, not removing his eyes from her.

"Why—yes, of course." Amrothos was regarding him with an odd expression. "You were speaking in the stables this afternoon, I thought you knew one another."

"Well, yes, but—" He had thought her an ostler's daughter. Éomer bit his tongue. Of course he could not say as much out loud.

Lothíriel had yet to speak, she was still staring at him peculiarly. Her hands, folded in front of her, clasped a closed fan, and her head tilted to the side slightly.

"So you are the king," she said pensively. "I was not expecting that, I suppose. But I haven't fainted; my record remains clean."

Éomer burst into laughter. He hardly noticed that Amrothos was looking between them, utterly confused.

"What—" Amrothos began to say.

"Were you watching when I entered?" Éomer could not help asking her. "Did very many ladies swoon?"

"I did not see," she admitted. "I saw when a large group of the Rohirrim entered, but none struck me as being the king. Nor was there any swooning, as far I could tell."

"A disappointment, to be sure! My pride is wounded. Ought I re-enter, then, do you think? So you may have your amusement? Though I may only receive a greater humbling, which is a far less attractive prospect."

Lothíriel was smiling, her charming dimples fully visible. "I should not be so selfish," she said. "But I do love a laugh. It would be difficult to decline your generous offer."

"You two are equally strange," Amrothos interrupted, drawing Éomer's gaze away from Lothíriel reluctantly. She was flushed pink. "I cannot keep up with your banter and secret meanings. May I find some lesser company, then?"

"Go, Amrothos," Lothíriel said, fondly patting his arm. "Do not let us torture you so." Her brother only shook his head in response before disappearing into the crowd. Éomer took the chance to step closer to the princess, deciding that she was far prettier than he had initially thought. Beautiful, even. And with such a sense of humor . . .

He watched her, baffled, as she stuck a slippered foot out from under her skirt, observing it carefully and with great exaggeration.

"What is it?" Éomer asked in amusement.

"I was only wondering if my foot was whole. From sticking it in my mouth, that is. I was terribly forward, wasn't I?"

He chuckled. "Perhaps. But we hardly knew each other's identity. I am not offended. Nor, I hope, are you—I thought you an ostler's daughter or such."

"I could not be offended," Lothíriel said, her dark lashes fluttering. "For I thought you a mere soldier."

"Of course. I do not go about to visit my horse wearing a crown and ermine cape, now do I?"

She covered her mouth, giggling. "I should hope not! That does seem rather arrogant. And the gossips have said nothing of the King of Rohan's conceit!"

"Truly?"

"Truly! Only that you are handsome; I heard nothing of your personality. I suppose it is difficult for the ladies to gauge your character when they are unconscious in your presence."

Éomer wished he could understand her sentiments; though her eyes were sparkling warmly, he wondered if _she_ thought him handsome.

"I could hardly believe that though, after this afternoon," Lothíriel said, sobering slightly. "If you—a common foot soldier, I believed—and so to be considered only only commonly good-looking, I began to doubt the tales of the King's attractiveness. I decided he must either by nigh on godly or else the poor victim of a massive overstatement!"

He laughed again; her plain-speaking was so endearing he could hardly help himself. "You humble me," he said at last, wiping the mirth from his eyes.

Lothíriel inclined her head. The music for dancing was struck up, and the noise of conversation around them heightened as speculation began about who-would-dance-with-whom. Éomer blinked as he saw a wide gap made in the middle of the hall for dancers, and it immediately began to fill.

"May I offer an apology?" she asked next to him, quietly. "I would not have bothered your horse if I knew I ought not to have. I should have asked . . ."

"No, it is quite alright." Éomer grinned down at her. "Firefoot is rather difficult to pass over without admiration, if I may say so myself.

"Now there is that kingly arrogance!" Lothíriel laughed. "Though you are perfectly within your rights to think so. Firefoot—that is his name?—is very splendid indeed."

"Would you care to ride him sometime?" The words were out before Éomer could stop them. Then again, he did not really wish to.

"Oh—could I?" Her bright eyes widened with pleasure. "Is that—er, allowed?"

"If it is offered, which I have. And Firefoot does quite like you already." Éomer was pleased by Lothíriel's enthusiasm; it was positively contagious.

"Well! Now that I have witnessed your kindness I must start gossip of my own," she said decidedly.

"Oh?"

"Certainly! The only question is whether I will whisper to the ladies that you are as kind as you are handsome, or else utterly frightful and rude. The second option, of course, would guarantee me more of your company for myself."

"And would you be so selfish?" Éomer said, continuing her teasing.

"Of course! I would not wish to have to wait my turn to ride Firefoot."

He laughed. "You must think I offer any lady who can endure my presence to ride my horse! Indeed, I do not."

Lothíriel was smiling up at him, causing a strange sensation to roll about in his stomach. Impulsively, he picked up her hand, and she clutched the fan in her opposite hand more tightly, her cheeks red.

"Will you dance with me?" Éomer asked.

"I—I suppose I will. If there is any lady here who had yet to see you, I will have a prime viewing to her swoon."

"That is good enough for me." He lead her to the floor, oblivious to the muttering which followed them, for he only saw Lothíriel's warm eyes.

Ostler's daughter or princess, she was _marvelous_.


	6. The Kiss

Lothíriel was pulling the dead plants out of the garden of her father's house when the cheering began. At first, it was far away, and almost immediately a gust of wind tore the sound away. She thought nothing of it and continued her work, enjoying the feel of the cold dirt on her fingers. Then the shouts came again, carrying pure jubilation to her ears. Curious, she stood, brushing her hands together. Happiness had been absent for so long that such joy seemed foreign to her. She leaned out over the garden wall to overlook the five circles below, and to her great astonishment, a parade of soldiers on horses rode through the city.

Now that she could see the commotion, she wondered how she did not hear it earlier. The streets were crowded with people crying, shouting, and cheering in welcome to the returning victors. For they had to be victorious rather than the vanguard of a defeated army, to cause such a stir. Then she caught sight of her father, and then her brothers, at the head of the procession—all alive!

Lothíriel began to cry, too. The overwhelming relief overtook over her senses like the battering ram that had shattered the city gates. But that war was over! Her family had returned from the Black Gate! The parade was coming closer, and she ran to the front gate of the house to pull it open. There was no time to wait for a servant! Soon enough the soldiers were tromping through, and she had to back away to avoid being trampled underneath the pounding hooves.

"Lothie! Lothie!" Through her tears she saw Amrothos alight from his horse. He dashed over and swept her into a massive hug that took her breath away. She choked, and he let her go before kissing her on both cheeks quite soundly. "We won, sister! We won!"

"I am not a total dunderhead, brother, I did figure that out for myself!" Lothíriel laughed, feeling giddy as she threw her arms 'round his neck again, half-strangling him until he laughed and wriggled away.

"We are all alive! Though I am sure you already know with your mystical mind-reading." Amrothos's teasing was so perfectly, wonderfully normal she thought her heart might burst.

"Oh, stuff it!" she said fondly, reaching up to brush dust from his hair. "Where's Erchi and Father?"

A familiar voice startled her from behind. "And what am I? Horse fodder?"

Amrothos grinned and left as Lothíriel spun around to see Elphir, and she squealed. More hugging, and more kisses.

"Why are you so filthy?" Elphir asked when they broke apart, looking her up and down at arm's length.

"I—I do not quite remember," Lothíriel said, feeling dizzy. She looked around to see that all of her father's household had assembled, and even their neighbors had seemingly climbed over the walls to join the fray. She laughed as she saw Father kiss the housekeeper on the lips, the older woman giving him a rap on the head after the fact, though her cheeks were rosy. Elphir chortled beside her.

It was certainly not the only unexpected kiss of the hour. After greeting her father and remaining brother more elegantly, Lothíriel found herself kissing the cheeks of men she had known since childhood: the standard-bearers, the drummer boy who was not really a boy anymore, the training master from the yard that had taught her to defend herself with a knife several summers earlier. The drummer boy she kissed on the lips in her excitement, the tips of his ears turning red as she giggled with him. Her breath was short as she embraced everyone she saw and was embraced in return. She even saw Erchirion kiss the young woman who lived next door, for whom she knew he had been soft for years. There was clapping, and singing, and even a few jigs as the noise seemed to increase rather than fade.

Lothíriel laughed to see Amrothos kissing the housekeeper twice before she stomped on his toes. Amrothos limped away, pain in his features but the silly grin still on his face. She turned, clasping her hands as she took in the pure joy of it all, and stopped short at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man staring at her.

Her breath caught in her throat as she met his intense, darkening eyes. He was easily the tallest man she had ever seen, and likewise held the reins of the tallest horse in the yard. His gleaming golden hair swept past his shoulders and—so unlike the men of Gondor—wore a beard that could not quite hide his strong jaw. His burnished bronze armor was unlike anything she had ever seen, especially against the blues and silvers of her father's men. Lothíriel felt a hand flutter to her chest, as if trying to calm the erratic thudding of her heart.

He dropped his reins and strode to her with determination. Before she could speak, his arms had encircled her waist and his mouth covered hers with near-shocking fervor. Everything about him—his appearance, his musky smell of horse and leather, the rasp of his beard against her chin—even the strength in his arms was foreign to her, yet it was only natural to wrap her arms around his neck and weave her fingers through his hair. She felt her feet leave the ground and she was lifted into the air. Her lips opened to his, and he took full advantage. Fire poured through her veins, and she clung to him, trembling. His hold on her tightened.

Minutes later, though it seemed like years, he lifted his head from hers. Lothíriel blinked. He still gazed at her with clear green eyes—a lovely color, she thought dimly. Her own emotions were mirrored there: strange passion, confusion, a little hesitancy but not an ounce of regret. A mutter in a language she did not understand came from his lips. He lowered her to the ground, and Lothíriel was surprised to find that her legs had feeling again.

A hand clapped on his shoulder, and they both jumped as Elphir appeared, a strained grin on his face. "Any other day and I would whip you, Éomer," he said, his knuckles white. "Do it again and I will."

The man cursed in his language. "Is this—is this your wife?" His voice was the nicest sound Lothíriel thought she had ever heard in her life, deep and resonating but with an underlying warmth. But as soon as he spoke, he released his hold on her waist, and she nearly keeled over before managing to pull herself upright.

"No, no! My sister."

The man's face turned a little pale, and he looked down at Lothíriel again, who could only manage a wobbly smile. He picked up one of her trembling hands in his large one and bringing it to his lips. Elphir coughed slightly before speaking.

"Lothie, this is King Éomer of Rohan. Éomer, this is my sister, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

"Well met," the king said, and he grinned at Lothíriel. "Well met indeed."


	7. A Common Language

Éomer's fumbling Westron, which had vastly improved in the past weeks since he was made king on a plain in Gondor, was not well accepted in Merethrond. His new native friends had not breathed a single word of complaint about his thick accent, and many of his kinsmen were also present to celebrate his sister's betrothal. But the courtiers, for whom he tried to wear a mask of blank politeness, were not gentle in their judgments. A fat man with a flaccid face was leering from behind a lace fan, and fashionably dressed women with painted faces and half-exposed breasts spoke to him loudly and slowly, as if to suggest that because he was foreign, he was stupid. But he understood Westron very well; it was the lack of practice that made him stumble on his tongue.

"He looks like an exotic import, from Harad or such," a woman in a garish yellow dress was not lowering her voice at all beneath the strains of music, though they were only a few feet apart. Éomer felt a red flush creep up his neck. "A prize to grace a bed, to be sure, but to be his wife! I cannot fathom living in a grass hut among the dogs and pigs."

His nostrils were flaring, his temper now quite mad. He was about to turn and let loose his tumult of thoughts, in whatever language that might spill from his mouth when a short, fiery-eyed lady stepped between them. As she faced away from Éomer, he could not hear what exactly she said in her low, even voice, but from the souring expression of the woman in yellow, he let his imagination run wild. The lady straightened her back, and the woman curtsied before turning and walking away through the throngs of dancers, with her colorful companions in tow. He opened his mouth to speak—to say, what, exactly?—when the lady turned, fixating him with a bold stare.

"I apologize for the people of my country, my lord king," she said. "There has been little to temper court gossip in recent years."

"You do not need to apologize for them," Éomer said.

"I am sorry for them, in any case," her eyes suddenly twinkled. "And I am forgetting my manners. Westu Éomer hal!"

More astounding than this confident and friendly Gondorian woman was the Rohirric she spoke. "How did you learn my language?" he asked, not straying from Westron, as he did not wish to find out how little she knew by embarrassing her.

"My brothers and father fought alongside your people," she said. "They only taught me a few words, as apparently the majority of their new phrases were unfit for my ears."

Éomer grinned, and he finally relaxed his arms from where they had been clenched across his chest, as if to protect himself. "I would think so. Who are your brothers, lady? I could know them."

"You know them," she said, tilting her chin up. "I am Imrahil's daughter. Both he and my brothers spoke well of you."

The princess of Dol Amroth! It was no longer a wonder that the other women had listened to what she had said. He cast his mind back, albeit fruitlessly, to remember what exactly Erchirion had said of his little sister. Éomer did recall that that particular evening was rather heavy on the wine, which was likely why he could not even remember her name, though he was sure he knew it. "Your brothers are admirable in every way," he rumbled. "It is a compliment to hear that they think highly of me in return."

"Yes," the princess said. An abrupt, and rather awkward silence fell between them, and Éomer's blush returned. "Do you know of anyone that might teach me Rohirric?" she said suddenly, her own cheeks infused with a rather pretty shade of pink.

"You might ask Éowyn," he rumbled. "Since she has planned to reside in Gondor for the remainder of her life." His offhand comment caused a wrinkle to appear between the princess's brows.

"You do not want to lose her?" she asked. He frowned at her perceptiveness, as innocent as it was.

"No, I do not," he said. "If it was not looked down upon to challenge suitors to a duel, I would have beat Faramir days ago."

"I would take issue with that," the princess said in a mild tone. "Faramir is my cousin."

Éomer had a sudden desire to tear out his own tongue. The blasted thing would be the death of him, by way of a vengeful blade or an equally brutal woman's hairpin. Though this princess did not wear any pins in her long, dark tresses; perhaps for her cousin's honor she would use her fingernails instead.

"But I do not begrudge you your poor humor," she continued, aware of his thoughts. "I would probably feel similarly if I were you." Her last words were drowned out as a loud clinking sound filled the chamber, and Éomer saw the dancers cease their steps as the old wizard, Gandalf, mounted the steps that lead to the king's throne, before turning to address the crowd. "Bother," the princess muttered.

"What is it?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"Mithrandir is going to give a speech. I sat through one at dinner last night; it was horrible. I almost fell asleep in my pudding."

The image of the princess nodding off into a bowl of pudding was nearly too much for Éomer in his current state (he was still feeling unwell from the horrendous stares he had gotten all night), and he snorted. She gave him a startled look, but the mirth was already building in him and he bit his lips together to keep from laughing. Everybody around them was facing towards Gandalf, listening intently to the solemn words. But still Éomer could not control himself, and he clenched a fist into his stomach. The princess had obviously guessed what he was about, as she was grinning with amusement at his discomfort.

"I cannot believe you," she whispered. "Laughing at the wizard!"

"I have to leave," he wheezed. "Where is the nearest corridor!"

In response, the princess grasped his hand and together they turned and fled, her billowing dress leading Éomer through a side door and into a hallway that he had not seen before. She turned and shut the door, and he burst into long-withheld laughter. It was contagious; she joined him after only a moment, leaning against the door to keep herself up as Éomer was doubled over, the hilarity and strangeness of the situation overwhelming him. Once it subsided slightly, he had only to meet the eyes of the princess before laughter overtook him once more.

"Ahhh…." the princess said, wiping her eyes. "Thank you, my lord king. Though I do not know what I should thank you for. I am not sure what you found so ridiculous."

"I do not recall," he said, running a hand through his hair though still smiling widely. "But this evening has been one of upheaval to me. I should thank you for restoring my good cheer."

She immediately swept into an elegant curtsy, lowering her lashes. "You are most welcome, my lord king. I am pleased to assist you in any way."

He bent into an equally frivolous bow, and their gazes locked. They stood still, and then in a rush came together, their lips meeting in unseemly haste. Éomer fumbled as he tried to hold the lady, but no matter where he put his hands it did not feel right. How long had it been since he had kissed a woman? Years, at least. But this one did not seem to mind his clumsiness, and at her gentle caresses he felt himself melting. Breathless, they pulled apart, and Éomer felt an odd tugging sensation in his chest. The torchlight was flickering in her eyes, and the upturned corners of her perfectly shaped lips made him hungry for her taste once more. But he could not—even as she smiled at him, he remembered her brothers and of their skill with the sword. He would be mincemeat if they discovered what he had done to their sister.

"No," he said in a strangled voice, released her. "I should not have done that. I am sorry."

"I am not," she said, quite strong despite her flushed cheeks and swollen lips. She clasped one of his hands in hers. "Do not apologize, as I am equally to blame if you consider this to be so terrible."

"It is not terrible," he said before he could stop himself. "I mean, that is—"

In a strange way, he almost felt that she understood him, and she smiled at him. "I should return now. Will I see you again, my lord king?"

"Undoubtedly. Imrahil has already asked me to dine at his—your—house tomorrow."

"Wonderful." The princess turned to pass through the door, pausing to look back at him. So many things he wanted to say to her in that moment! How beautiful she looked, how he was not all sorry for having kissed her, how he looked forward to seeing her again, that he was in fact feeling so twitterpated in that dim corridor that he wanted to offer for her hand. His tongue felt like lead, but he had to speak.

"What—what is your name, daughter of Imrahil?"

"Lothíriel, my lord king."

"To you, Lothíriel, I am simply Éomer." As her skirt disappeared behind the door, he felt as if his future had passed before his eyes. Éomer took a deep breath, and followed her back to Merethrond.

* * *

 _Fun fact: This is the first ever short story I wrote for Eomer and Lothiriel. The FIRST. Now there's 12. And by short I mean like, less than 5000 words. Most way less. Anyway, I'm probably making very little sense. Hope you enjoy._


	8. Nice to Meet You, I'm Your Other Half

_Minas Tirith, 3019 TA_

Éomer found navigating the dark streets of Minas Tirith to be a daunting task. And having just come from a feast at the citadel, it was doubly difficult; he ought to have laid off the wine a bit. He might have fallen asleep in the hall with most of his men—Aragorn had anticipated this of many of the revelers, after all, but it did not seem quite the thing to do. He was a king now, and probably should show a mite more self control.

Still, the guesthouse was not far, and the path was relatively straight. Éomer blinked at the bright moon above, grateful for the light, and shouldered through the unlocked gate into the Sixth Circle. He glanced at the low stone wall which dropped below, and paused. Something was not quite right, someone was—

Someone was standing on the wall! He could just discern the dark cloak fluttering in the slight breeze, and that the figure was facing away from him—in fact facing the city below. Very far below.

Slow on the uptake, Éomer rushed towards the person and shouted, "Do not jump!"

At the sudden noise the figure turned towards him, and then slipped, arms flailing. He heard a feminine-sounding gasp, and the person pitched forward.

He scarcely caught her, cloak at all, and the force of her descent made him stumble backward. Éomer was hit in the face by an arm, and he groaned aloud.

"Let go of me!" The woman struggled, and despite feeling uncharitable with his throbbing nose, he lowered her to the ground. She was shorter than he expected, and the hood of her cloak had fallen back, revealing a pale, pinched face and a tumbling mass of dark hair, loose from a plait. She stared up at him for a moment, and then glowered.

"I was not going to jump. And you startled me—of course I fell!"

"I apologize," Éomer said automatically. "I—I thought you were—were—"

"I was _not_." She crossed her arms in front of her chest, and he began to feel he was being scolded. For what? For being so kind as to try to save her life? Even if she had not intended to die this night, when he had caused her to lose her balance she certainly might have broken something on the hard street, had he not caught her. She continued, "I know you are from the north—so I will inform you that many of us in this city are quite accustomed to walking along its walls; yes, even from this height. I have been doing so since I was a child."

"You are right, I did not know." His voice was gruff. "I only saw someone who appeared to be intent on jumping to their death, which I would seek to stop in any instance."

"How noble. Well, you have done your duty—go on then." She waved her hand imperiously at him.

"It is late," Éomer said, his chivalry revived with her words. "You ought not to be left alone."

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then she sighed. "Very well, then. My father will be expecting me back."

"And where do you live?"

"Oh, er—the house of the prince of Dol Amroth—just...down the road a ways."

Éomer considered taking her arm (perhaps more for his sake), but said nothing, and as one they turned and began to walk away from the gate. He wondered briefly what sort of woman lived in Imrahil's house; he had yet to visit it himself, and he knew little of the prince's family apart from his sons. But these would be impertinent questions, and so he chose a somewhat safer inquiry to fill the silence: "What were you doing on the wall, if I may ask?"

"Looking," the woman said. "And thinking."

"Oh. I see."

"I daresay it sounds very silly," she added, though there was a defensive tone to her voice. "But it is very hard to think during the day, with so many people in the city."

Whether she meant to imply that _his_ people were the ones crowding the city, was unclear. Éomer decided she probably did not; her face was too pensive for ulterior motives. "I should think you are perfectly in the right," he replied. "At this hour, one does rarely come across anyone else."

She did glance up at him them, and he thought he saw a hint of amusement in her dark eyes. He wanted to know what color they were, but even with the help of the moon he could not tell. "You came from the citadel," she said. "I could hear the festivities for hours. I thought it would never end."

Éomer chuckled. "As did I. Aragorn is a gracious host, indeed."

"Oh—you mean the King."

"I do."

"You must know him very well, to refer to him so familiarly."

He waited a moment, then, "One could say that."

There was an upwards tilt to her lips, and as he studied her face he saw that she was very pretty. Prettier than he expected for a woman wandering alone in the dead of night.

"Here is my home." They had stopped in front of a pair of tall oaken gates, and the woman stepped forward to lift the great iron latch.

"Wait." Éomer placed a hand on her arm and she glanced back, blinking in surprise. "I would know your name, if you will," he said.

"I am Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. And you?"

Imrahil had a daughter! Éomer had been unaware. He bowed slightly, unwilling to make a poor impression upon his friend's daughter. "Éomer of Rohan, my lady."

"Then I thank you, Éomer of Rohan. For even if my life was not in real danger you were kind to think of it." A flitting smile, and she pushed the gate open. "Good night, my lord." Then she was gone, and the gate thudded shut.

Éomer was whistling cheerily as he departed.


	9. Two Children

_1 F.A., Edoras_

A stream of spit-up dribbled down the baby's chin, and Éomer, newly experienced in these sort of matters, picked up a corner of Elfwine's blanket and dabbed at his mouth. The boy gazed up at his father with big dark eyes, arms flailing.

"There you are, little sir," Éomer said, and bent over to kiss the babe's soft, plump cheek. "We must keep clean for Mama." Elfwine cooed back, and gave a wide, open-mouthed and toothless smile which made his father chuckle softly. "You do not have to say it plainly," Éomer told him, with a knowing nod. "I know that _I_ am your favorite parent."

"I do doubt that," Lothíriel said dryly from the bed, where she was brushing her hair before plaiting it for bed. "I think he would quite miss my milk."

Éomer glanced over at his wife from where he sat in front of the cheery fire, and gave her a teasing grin. "We shall just keep it between ourselves," he added to his son, and at Lothíriel's exasperated huff, he nuzzled Elfwine's tiny nose. The babe sneezed. "Oh! You had best not catch a cold," Éomer said quickly, and adjusting him so the baby rested in one of his large hands, he wrapped the blanket more tightly so that Elfwine could hardly move. Perhaps some of Éomer's worry was visible to his son, for Elfwine smiled again, kicking his little feet out of his wrappings.

"You are fussing too much," Lothíriel said. "It is _June_ ; he is highly unlikely to catch a cold."

"Yes, but he is so young that any illness could be dangerous." Éomer had heard a few of the older soldiers amongst his éored speaking of this a few days earlier; the fear of losing Elfwine to a fever still lingered in his mind.

"Perhaps," she allowed. "But since we have been obeyed the midwife's instructions to keep anyone with even a hint of illness away from him—I think we are safe."

Elfwine yawned then, and Éomer pulled him closer so that he rested in his arms, and began to bounce the baby. His son's eyes widened—Éomer bounced less forcefully. Elfwine yawned again.

"It is growing late," Lothíriel said, and there was the sound of her tucking herself in to sleep. "Let the boy rest in his own bed."

"I will," Éomer promised, unable to take his eyes from Elfwine's drooping eyes. "In a moment."

* * *

Lothíriel, lying awake to wait for her husband to do as he promised, gave up sleep after some twenty minutes. She sighed and rose, her bare feet padding softly on the thick rugs as she walked over to the fire. Just as she suspected—Éomer's head leaned back on the chair, and he was snoring softly. Elfwine was as deeply asleep, tucked snugly in his father's embrace and breathing little baby breaths.

She smiled to herself, and gently lifted Elfwine from Éomer's arms. The baby squirmed, but settled right back to sleep against her breast. Lothíriel rocked him as she took him to his cradle, and set him in softly and keeping him wrapped in his blankets.

Éomer she could do little for; he was extremely difficult to wake. So Lothíriel sighed again and went about tugging the boots off of his feet, tossing them towards the door. It would have to suffice.

 _Why_ , she thought to herself as she returned to bed, her worry for Elfwine falling out of Éomer's limp arms quite taken care of. _It is like having two children._


	10. The Handsomest

"Who, do you think, is the handsomest man tonight?"

Amused, Lothíriel cast her eyes over the huge crowd in Merethrond—silly as her friend was being about the hundreds of soldiers in the city, it seemed all the more ridiculous to try to pick any out from the swarming mass of people. It was a positive crush—they could not move anywhere without difficulty, let alone pick out a single face. She was tempted to declare her brothers for the sake of her own pride, but she guessed that Milith would not appreciate a joke. Her friend was deadly serious.

"King Elessar," Lothíriel decided. "I have not seen his match."

"Oh, yes! Indeed, I think you are quite correct." Milith's voice was breathless, and Lothíriel bit back a smile. She had never met someone _so_ interested in young men before. Though she had to be patient with her friend; Milith had, after all, lost both of her parents in the last few months… Any joy, however silly, must be had.

"We ought to move to the center of the room, if you are wishing to dance," Lothíriel suggested with a grin. "No one will see us here."

Without a word Milith wove her arm through Lothíriel's and fair began to drag her deeper into the crowd. Lothíriel murmured 'excuse us's to all they shouldered past, keeping her chin level so as not to betray being cowed by so much nobility and heroics in one hall. That she was shorter than nearly all of them did make it more difficult.

The music for dancing was only audible once they were standing near it; so many overlapping voices and laughter were beginning to ring in her ears. Perhaps fifty couples were attempting to dance, but the lack of space made it tricky.

"It is rather clumsy dancing," Lothíriel said. "I shouldn't wish to bother. My elbows and toes would be bruised by the end of the night!"

"Oh, you are ridiculous!" Milith cried. "Why, to dance with a soldier would be the greatest honor!"

"Of course."

They stood for a few moments content with observing. Then without warning, Milith dug her fingernails into Lothíriel's arm, gasping aloud. "There!" she hissed. "That is the handsomest man I have _ever_ seen!"

Lothíriel followed her gaze to some twenty feet away, where a group of Rohirric soldiers were standing and talking amongst themselves. The tallest wore an embroidered emblem of a blazing sun on his breast, and Lothíriel guessed that Milith had just fallen in love with the King of Rohan. She suppressed a groan—from how her brothers spoke of the King, she guessed that Milith would be experiencing a great deal of heartache. The King did not favor any woman above others. He was kind, certainly—but it was likely he had a woman in Rohan. How could he not? For he _was_ attractive; more attractive than she would have expected.

"He is very handsome," Lothíriel allowed. "Despite the beard."

"Beard? Oh—he does not have a beard! Whomever are you looking at?"

Lothíriel flushed, glancing again at the other men in the King's circle until she found the single man who wore his chin bare. He was considerably younger and his hair a sandy brown rather than the glinting gold of his King. And he was looking back at Milith with light in his eyes. She saw one of his companions elbow him in the ribs, and the poor young man winced. Other eyes now turned to them, and Lothíriel kept her chin high.

"Well," she said lightly. "Perhaps he will ask you to dance. From the way he is gazing at you, I rather suspect he shall."

"Oh! Oh! My heart is fluttering—I do not know if I can—"

The young man was now speaking to his King beside him, and the King looked their way. Lothíriel inclined her head, and to her surprise, he grinned back. Her cheeks pinked. He turned and said something to his friends.

There was a final note of music, and many people began to clap as the couples on the floor began to break up. Milith's hand on her arm was clammy, and Lothíriel pried away her friend's fingers gently. "Do try not to appear unapproachable," Lothíriel whispered. "He is coming."

Milith's response was strangled in her throat.

The young man walked towards him, and to Lothíriel's astonishment, his King was with him. The rest of the Rohirrim remained behind, and she thought she saw some chuckling amongst them. Was that the clink of exchanged coins? Oh, for Ulmo's sake…

The two men stopped before them. The King bowed to Lothíriel, taking her hand. "My lady," he said in a rich, deep voice. She blinked stupidly as he continued, "I have heard a great deal of you from your brothers—please do not consider it impertinent that I introduce myself."

"Oh, not at all," Lothíriel said, recovering as soon as he released her hand. "I only wonder why we have not met before."

He smiled at her broadly, his teeth flashing. "My companion, Déor." The young man now turned to Lothíriel, taking her hand nervously and only sparing her a passing glance. Lothíriel bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"This is my friend, Lady Milith of Pelargir," she said smoothly.

Déor swallowed, his eyes fastened on a blushing Milith. "Will you dance with me, lady?"

"Oh—oh, certainly!"

Lothíriel suppressed her smile as they strode towards the dancing, worried that the two would bump into something, being so absorbed in each other. She glanced quickly at the King and saw his own withheld laughter. Their eyes met, and he chuckled. She hoped dearly the noise covered her own, unladylike snort.

"You are too kind, my lord," she said. "To introduce them, I mean to say—have you ever considered matchmaking as a hobby?"

"Never!" the king laughed. "And I do not think I wish to. There is only luck to thank, in this instance."

Lothíriel could not help noticing the crowd pushing them back slightly, and they were drawn closer together. "Do not underestimate the power of your goodwill. For if you had not brought your man over, I would have been subject to Milith's sighing and lamenting for the remainder of the night. You have saved _me_ a great deal of trouble!"

"I am happy to have done the service for you." The king bowed again. "But let us also not underestimate the power of my own selfish motives."

She lifted her brows, awaiting an explanation.

"My friends and I were just discussing who might be the most beautiful lady in the hall this night," he said, a grin spreading across his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was a very nice smile, if a bit smug. "They wonder if even _I_ could convince such a woman to dance with me."

Lothíriel was even more confused by this, but she did not let it show. How could their respective conversations been _so_ similar? It seemed very odd. "Your friends think either very highly or very badly of you," she teased.

"I think that will depend on whether or not I succeed."

"And shall you, do you think?"

" _That_ depends on you. Now that I have gained your sympathy, dare I hope you will take pity and dance with me?"

Her heart thumped in her breast, dazed at the intense expression on his face. Then she smiled in belated understanding of his insinuation, feeling a hot flush spread across her neck and face. But Lothíriel ignored this. "What is the reward?" she asked.

"Er—a few coins."

"Well, if we divide the profit, I think you will find me a most willing partner."

The King laughed then. "A truly conniving mind! Very well. I am willing to sacrifice gold for my pride." His eyes were warm—his blue eyes, Lothíriel noticed as he took her hand. Even though he did tower over her, she did not feel quite as overwhelmed as she normally did. At least, not in the same way.

"Then we are in agreement," she said, smiling.

"I thank you, my lady," he said with his broad grin. "I look forward to a prosperous partnership."


	11. Madame Tilla

_And now for something a teensy bit different..._

* * *

The wizened crone hobbled briskly down the corridor, her breath labored but her eyes bright. How relieved the princess would be, and easy Madame Tilla herself could rest now that she had done the impossible. It had taken years - keeping her awake at night and causing her hand to tremble. But that was over now - the princess would soon be well on her way to happiness!

The low murmur of female voices did nothing to dissuade the old woman from her objective, and she burst through the door without waiting for announcement. "My Lady princess! I have found you a match!"

The princess had been in the midst of her toilette for the ball that night, maids hovering around with silks, hairpins, and perfume. All jumped when Madame Tilla entered, and the princess turned in her seat with wide eyes. "Why, Madame Matchmaker - " she began. This momentary lapse in manners, brought about by the more commonly used nickname for Tilla, was quickly smoothed over. "Madame Tilla, how lovely it is to see you - " The princes started again.

"Haven't the time for pleasantries," the old lady wheezed. "Came directly here to tell you the news!"

Princess Lothíriel wore an expression of confusion, and Tilla clucked with impatience. "I found you a husband, girl! Keep guzzying her up, misses, tonight will be her night!" This she directed towards the maidservants, who did as she bade, but Tilla noted with some satisfaction that all three were now hiding smiles at their mistress's good fortune.

"Will you not pull up a seat?" the princess asked, gesturing towards a divan.

Tilla sat, wishing she could put her feet up, but trying to focus instead on her purpose in coming here. "It has been many long years, but at last! At last!" she crowed. "I was listening to the king's council this afternoon - "

"You were present at the king's council?" the princess asked with interest.

"No, not precisely. You do recall the peephole hidden behind the statue of Berúthiel and her cats? The one where I caught you and your brother listening in on years ago."

The princess had the good grace to blush, and let it pass. "Do continue, Madame, I apologize for my interruption."

"As I was saying, I was listening in on the council - it really was nothing exciting - refugee displacement, supply provisions, farming - that sort of thing. But oh! The king was addressing a friend of his, and what a man he is! I only had to hear his voice! I have found your equal!"

The princess looked skeptical, which Tilla did not find surprising at all. How many years had it been since she had been searching out a husband worthy of Gondor's finest - indeed, Gondor's only princess? Five at least.

"You know, I was keen on pairing you with our new king at the onset - a pity he is plighted to another. He would have done better to search out _my_ services. There is none better than I, as I know the hearts of youngsters better than they themselves!"

The princess smiled benignly.

"Anyhow, I had to pull a few strings, but I discovered the identity of this man, and the best news: he will be dancing at the ball tonight!"

This was clearly the climax of the crone's discourse, and the princess continued to regard Tilla with kindness. "Of course, I should be pleased to meet him after such a glowing recommendation. Pray tell - what is his name?"

"Oh no - I shan't reveal his name! You must meet him with a clear mind, and no prejudices." This Tilla had learned from experience, and she was not going to risk anything going badly for the princess. She was still breathing rather heavily, and a maid brought her a cup of tea at the princess's instruction. Such an agreeable girl! A pity the princess had been forced to wait so many years to marry. When the princess had turned eighteen and became eligible to marry, there had been no man noble enough for her (in Tilla's good opinion, of course), in the land of Gondor, excepting the princess's own brothers and cousins. The princess's unique combination of heritage, beauty, and perfect manners made her desirable enough to nearly all men that met her, but Tilla knew that a special woman needed a special man - none of those _common_ lads that Minas Tirith was rife with.

The princess thoughtfully offered to help Madam Tilla to the ballroom, which she accepted. Tilla's knees were feeling weak from her hurried expedition, but the princess did not seem perturbed at all at having to slow her pace exceedingly while the old woman leaned on her arm. Which was excellent, for she would need patience . . .

The dancing had already begun, and Tilla instructed the princess to set her on one of the benches that lined the wall of Merethrond. "Sit by me awhile," Tilla said. "I expect your future husband will seek me out soon enough."

"I can only hope," the princess said, sitting prettily. She was such a lovely sight, Tilla thought. There would likely be no opposition from the man in question, even if there was no such tradition as a matchmaker in his foreign land.

Dancers twirled around to cheery music, and with the great front doors thrown open a cool breeze kept the hall from becoming overheated. Tilla tapped her heel impatiently, turning down wine and victuals until her objective was completed. Where was the man?

Ah! He strode towards her now, his evident natural grace and tall form confirming even further his suitability for her princess. As previously agreed upon, the man bowed over Tilla's hand. "I am most pleased to see you again, Madame Tilla," he said in rich tones. "I had hoped the late hour would not prevent you from attending."

"And why would it, young man?" she snapped.

He only grinned back, shifting his focus towards the princess to her left.

"This is Princess Lothíriel," she informed him. "She most kindly agreed to sit with me for the time being. I am sure she is becoming most impatient to join the dancers. Princess, this is Éomer, king of the Riddermark."

His cue taken, the king bowed again to the princess, who inclined her head and blushed. "Would you care for a dance?" he asked, almost lazily.

"Yes, thank you, sire," the princess said softly, putting her hand in his.

Tilla gloated to herself as she watched the handsome pair join the dancing throng. Two good natures were nearly always likely to suit, and the noble backgrounds of each would ensure good stock. Her work was done.

She spotted a dark young man lingering nearby, and frowned. "Amrothos! Come here this instant and sit by me. Your sister saw fit to desert me, and as you know I am an old woman and cannot be left alone. Do you remember when . . ."

* * *

Lothíriel gazed contentedly into Éomer's hazel eyes, the crowd around them quite disappearing from her mind. His hand was warm on her waist, and he was smiling.

"She is a dear thing," she said. "If nosy."

"I did hear she had quite a reputation as a matchmaker amongst you Gondorians," he replied.

"That is her occupation, it is true."

"Then she is clearly remiss. Does she not know?"

"No, indeed not," Lothíriel laughed. "Father has yet to announce our troth to the court."

"I see." Éomer pondered for a moment. "Then she would be exceptionally shocked to hear it tonight."

"She would perhaps be in danger of toppling out of her seat, but she would recover and claim all the credit."

"I wonder if Imrahil could be persuaded . . ."

They laughed together, exuding an intimacy that would have been quite apparent. After the dance, Éomer led the princess out the doors and to the terrace, one hand possessively at her lower back as they sought privacy from prying eyes.

* * *

"There, you see," Tilla pointed out to Amrothos, who was looking alarmed. "Another success for 'Madame Matchmaker', as they call me. And your sister will be wed to a king! You ought to consider . . . "


	12. Midnight Swim

A rough shake aroused Lothíriel from pleasant dreaming. Understandably reluctant, she tugged the quilts over her head to block out the brightening of the chamber as her new husband stroked the fire into life. Unfortunately these events were enough that she could not simply drift back asleep, and for several moments she listened to Éomer's rustling as he dressed, clearly trying to make as much noise as he could. He was even humming to himself—an odious habit, she had always thought. It was terrible of him to try to wake her by being as irritating as possible, but somehow Lothíriel could not find the heart to be well and truly annoyed.

The quilts were pulled off of her, and she was ready with a full-on scowl as Éomer leaned over her, the crackling fire in the hearth lighting his grinning face.

"No," Lothíriel said before he could speak. "I do not know for what purpose you have wakened me at such an hour, but the answer is _no._ "

"You have not heard my proposal!" Éomer—bless him—pouted. There was no shame in him.

She was trying to retrieve the quilts from her husband, but he held tight, and brief tug-of-war ensued. "There is no fathomable reason," she said, puffing slightly as she lost the fight. "For which I would even consider leaving my bed in the middle of the night! If you have so much energy, you ought to go for a ride and leave me in—p—p— _peace_." The last word was perfectly punctuated by a yawn, but to Lothíriel's dismay, even her obvious reluctance would not dissuade Éomer, and he grinned.

Of course, that was something which she liked about him very much; were it not for his determination, they might not have married at all. And that would have been a far worse fate than even this, and almost against her will Lothíriel smiled upwards at Éomer, whose expression grew self-satisfied as he realized he had won.

"I have laid out your riding clothing," he said. "I am going to the stables; can I trust you to meet me there as soon as possible?"

"F- _i-i-i-ne_!" Lothíriel made a great show of sighing, but it only amused Éomer the more and he left the chamber laughing.

She could not dispute his thoughtfulness; he had taken the time to pick a clean riding outfit for her and a pair of boots. Still, Lothíriel was yawning again as she left their chambers and followed her husband to the stables. The summer night was warm; lingering heat from the sun of day heated the city even when the sun was absent. The track to the stables was uncommonly bright, and she saw a full moon casting its light far and wide. It was no wonder Éomer had chosen that night for a ride, then.

The stablehands were as tired as she, and she smiled kindly at them as they hurried to bow with red faces as she passed. Somehow they did not defer to Éomer in such a way; perhaps because they had known him longer—she did hope that they would soon see her as less frightening as they did at present.

Éomer was leading Firefoot from a stall, fully saddled and looking chipper. It did not seem fair, but Lothíriel greeted the stallion with a scratch on his chin, reserving for her husband a severe glare. "Come now," Éomer said. "You should be perfectly awake by now; it is only midnight, after all!"

"Only midnight!" Lothíriel scoffed. "And all of Edoras is asleep. As _I_ should be."

"You may sleep tomorrow night," Éomer told her with insufferable cheeriness. "Would you mind very much riding Firefoot with me? I thought it would make the trip easier on you."

"I do not mind at all," she said primly as they entered the dark yard, where the moon gave them light enough to mount the horse. Éomer swung up behind her, and unable to resist, Lothíriel added, "I would fall asleep if I rode alone, anyway, therefore ending up on Firefoot in either instance."

Firefoot cantered down the streets of Edoras, the only sound in the dead of the night. No lights guided them out of the city, but the stallion knew his way well. After several moments when they were sure to be out of earshot of anybody, Éomer hissed in her ear, "Now I know why your brothers warned me afore we were wed never to wake you. You are a positive bear! And a pert one, at that."

Lothíriel disliked the thought that her brothers and Éomer had discussed her, even if it was long in the past, so she gave a lofty sniff but said nothing. Truthfully she liked her husband far too much to be bothered about it, and since he seemed to like her well enough in return it was unlikely that any terrible tales of her brothers had affected his regard. Warm prickles broke across her skin, both at the contemplation of the extent of Éomer's affection and how close their bodies were at that moment.

The grassy plains that surrounded Edoras were no less beautiful in the moonlight, Lothíriel learned. Shades of white and darkness and grey made up the waving grasses, which disappeared quickly under Firefoot's soft hoofbeats as Éomer urged him into a gallop. The night air was cooler out here; Lothíriel shivered as a breeze stirred around them. Far away, the plaintive mooing of cows faded.

The ride did wonders to waken Lothíriel's senses, and when they at last stopped by a dark copse, she alighted into the cool grasses without waiting for Éomer's assistance. She breathed in deeply, the fresh, untainted air filling her with friskiness.

"You may now tell me your purpose in bringing me here, I hope," Lothíriel said to Éomer, who was tying Firefoot's lead to the branch of a tree.

"Can I?" he said, glancing at her with a grin. "There is some surprise left, my dear."

"Dare I ask?"

Éomer's expression turned reproachful. "Am I such a fright, then?" he asked.

"No," Lothíriel said stoutly, despite the immense urge to laugh. "But you have been rather secretive tonight!"

He took her hand without another word, and together they stepped past the trees and into the moonlight. Lothíriel nearly gasped with delight at the sight; just beyond the copse and before the tall wheat began, was a dark pool of water which shimmered with pale light.

"It is only warm enough to swim in during the hot season," Éomer explained. "One of my best kept secrets— from everyone, really. There is no fear of discovery here!"

Lothíriel could guess at his insinuation, especially as he began to doff his tunic. "Surely the man who farms that wheat would know if it!" she challenged.

But Éomer only shrugged in response. "'Tis the middle of the night," he said. "As you have been so quick to point out. No farmer whose chores begin before dawn will be awake at such an hour."

"We are," she pointed out. "And you are training with your eored at dawn; that is hardly any better!"

He was already wandering into the pool, making Lothíriel blush furiously from his nakedness and the cheeky smile he sent her way. "It's very nice," he called. "Still warm from the sun!"

Lothíriel thought that there was no better way he could entice her. But she decided as she kicked off her boots that she could not possibly let him know that. Husbands shouldn't have _that_ much influence. She had her pride to retain, after all, and splashed into the pool after him, whooping aloud.


	13. Snowed In

_In honor of our weekend high temps being -11 degrees F, here's something a little cold, a little silly, a little long, and little experimental on the POV side._

* * *

The mountain rumbled; once, twice, and finally with warning shouts from the people below, it dumped two days' blizzard worth of snow onto the luckless travellers.

Lothíriel felt that things could not have gone worse. She had been separated from everyone else, (having been seeking a moment of privacy in the bushes), and once the mountains began to shake she did either the smartest or stupidest thing possible—ran into a nearby inlet and covered her head in pure panic. Once the noise ceased, she finally peeked open her eyes, turning to see a pile of rocks and snow barring her way out of the cave. Her fury was instantaneous and uncontrollable, and she kicked the wall, screaming. It echoed much louder than she expected, and she had to cover her ringing ears.

She was alone. She had nothing other than the clothing and cloak on her back and a reticule at her waist. She did not know the area they had been travelling, and was unfortunately too aware of the ghost stories that were still told of the Dimolt Road. The unseasonable blizzard that had stopped the travelling party for the past days had brought a cold that penetrated the cave with a vengeance, and Lothíriel dropped to the ground hugging her knees tight.

The silence that followed the avalanche was nearly as deafening; Lothíriel could hear her rapid breathing and she tried to calm herself.

Would she be found?

It did not seem likely. She heard no shouts nor movement that might indicate a search party. Nor would anyone at the camp wish to see her again, anyway. This was simply an opportunity for her death.

That stupid king!

The rocks shifted, and Lothíriel climbed to her feet, wandering over to see a peek of light through a now-empty space. She pushed a few other rocks aside, and was able to climb high enough to peek her nose into the frigid air.

She saw nothing but snow, rocks, trees and other debris. It was just as silent as the cave! She swallowed, and wondered if everyone else was dead. Then she certainly would be. Tentatively—not wishing to be trapped again, Lothíriel stepped on the rocks until her head fit outside.

A sudden sound made her start, banging her neck on the rough side of the mountain. Uprooted trees had shifted, and as she watched an arm burst forth, before hoisting a body onto the top of the snow. Blast! It was the bloody king. He collapsed in a heap, gasping, apparently unhurt.

It was just her luck, that they be the only ones in sight. Lothíriel scowled at the sight of him, so alive. He ought to be the dead one. Would that the Fates be a little kinder to her!

Another rumble shook the mountain, and the king sat bolt upright, staring at another deluge of snow that Lothíriel saw rushing to where he was. Double blast!

"Here!" she called. "Éomer! Here!"

He scrambled to his feet, not even questioning that _she_ of all people was offering him safety, and he stumbled to the entrance. Lothíriel jumped down from her place, and he fell into the cave headfirst and bumping his elbows and knees on the descent. It was not at all graceful. He rolled onto his back and coughed, and Lothíriel sneered at the scrapes, bruises, and dirt across his face.

"Hullo, wife," he managed to say, opening an eye to glare at her.

"Good afternoon, _husband_."

* * *

Éomer rolled the stick between his cold hands, as he had for the past several minutes, smoke wafting from the makeshift firepit but no flames. It was probably futile, but it was useful for trying to ward off the dislike that simmered from the woman across from him. The woman, being his wife. It was more dislike than he was used to, but that was no surprise. After all, they could not avoid each other here, in a miniscule inlet and trapped in by rocks. The hole he had fallen through was closed.

It was just his luck. All of it: being stuck with _her_ , the avalanche, the blizzard (it was May, for Béma's sake!), their entire marriage. He glanced up at her, and she glowered.

"Do you have a flint, by chance?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Pity."

"Do _you_?"

Éomer scowled back. "No, wife; otherwise I would not have asked."

She sneered.

"Do you have a handkerchief, then? It might catch quicker than these leaves."

Lothíriel stared at him for a moment. "I do."

She did not elaborate nor produce the handkerchief, and taking a deep, measured breath, Éomer asked, "May I have it?"

"It is my only handkerchief."

He gritted his teeth. "And a fire is your only chance of survival."

Her face slackened into something like shock. "Do you mean—are we going to die?"

"Not if you give me your blasted handkerchief!" Éomer regretted his temper as soon as his words were spoken, as his wife flinched at his volume. But she opened her reticule, and produced for him a flimsy, embroidered silk square. He refrained from rolling his eyes at the sight of such a ridiculous handkerchief. He took it, tearing it into shreds before placing his stick on top of them, beginning again the monotonous task of trying to coax enough heat to start a flame.

* * *

Lothíriel held back tears, unwilling to cry in front of her husband. It was just her luck! Her last handkerchief from home, which she had embroidered as a hopeful youth, longing for the day she marry a man she loved and spend the remainder of her life in bliss.

What an airhead she had been!

She hugged her knees tight to her chest once more, the cold ground numbing her buttocks. Her head drooped onto her arms, and a tear fell.

"Here it is!"

Lothíriel looked up again, sniffling as the sight of the tiny flames consuming her handkerchief burned her eyes with intense light. Éomer crouched, blowing a soft breath onto the fire. It burned brighter.

"I am glad our messengers use this pass," he said, choosing the smallest sticks from the pile next to him. "And they had the foresight to store wood here!"

She mumbled something, uncommitted to the idea of speaking. They had never had a private conversation before, after all, and now did not seem like a good time to attempt one. She lowered her head again, misery sweeping her body.

Misery was not an unfamiliar emotion. In fact, its constant presence and nagging at her thoughts began, coincidently, on the very day of her wedding. Actually, it had been the night, and Lothíriel felt herself tense at the memory of her marriage bed—empty. Empty, empty, empty. Questions rolled through her mind, always asked but never answered: why did he not come? Did he not like her? Did he think her ugly, or unlovable? Was he ashamed of her? Why had he married her, if any of those things were remotely true?

An arranged marriage was, in retrospect, a terrible idea.

It had not seemed so terrible at the time; the recommendations of Éomer's good character came from her brothers, her father, and even the king of Gondor. Not to mention her cousin and his wife, who happened to be Éomer's sister. " _He is the sweetest man in the world!"_ Princess Eowyn had said of him. " _He is generous, and affectionate, and protective—if you care for that!_ " Lothíriel remembered Eowyn's cheeky smile at her own quip. Lothíriel had been thrilled that a hero of the war was interested in her own plain self, and she had heard of his handsomeness. Though the gossip had hardly done him justice.

If only she had known his cruelty!

There was little else Lothíriel could think of that was as humiliating as a bridegroom refusing to claim his conjugal rights. He had barely even spoken to her in the entire time they had been married, and after a year of barely polite treatment Lothíriel's dreams of happiness were all . . . dust.

"It is too dark to try to search around," Éomer said, and she looked up to see him staring at the fire rather than her, rubbing his hands together to warm them. "I will go in the morning." She ignored him, and returned to her desolate musings.

* * *

Éomer tried so hard to keep himself in check. But the sight of Lothíriel calmly meditating in the corner, as if she had not a care in the world, was making his blood boil. She had no right! This whole ordeal could be her fault, anyway—were it not for her he would not have suggested a spring holiday to Dol Amroth. Guilt pricked at him at this disloyal thought. He knew she was unhappy in Edoras, and for all her distant treatment of him, he did want her to have some pleasure in life. Why, exactly, she was unhappy was a tricky question; she had many friends among the noblewomen, she pursued worthwhile projects to fill her time, and frankly she had never shown any negative feelings towards anything in the Mark. Apart from himself.

Éomer remembered how her eyes had sparkled on their wedding day, and how she had smiled and blushed when he could not stop staring at her. She was so beautiful! He had thought himself the luckiest man in Arda to secure her hand.

Then, of course, when he had been in his study, listening to her pacing in the bridal chamber, nervousness had taken over. He lingered for a few moments, wondering what he would say to her. Then came the sound that still echoed in his mind—the door locking from her side.

He had felt so hurt! Did his bride fear him? Was the thought of sharing a bed so repulsive to her that she had to keep him away by any means possible? Anger had taken over later, and even now was still intense as ever. Éomer had never confronted her, admittedly too frightened to hear an answer that he dreaded.

A growling noise interrupted the silence, and he stared at his wife. She winced, a change from her ever-present frown, and held a hand to her stomach. "I apologize," she said.

"No need to," Éomer said gruffly. "You cannot control it."

Lothíriel turned her face away, but not before he caught sight of her eyes—tears! It felt like a blow to his stomach. She may not like him, but she was his wife and he was responsible for her, and for every tear she cried. He sighed. "I have no food to offer," he said. "But can I do anything else for you? Are you cold? Tired? You can sleep if you like; I will keep watch."

* * *

Lothíriel was surprised by this. She could not recall any other time when he had been so attentive to her needs. She turned back and saw his earnest, though distant expression. "I am well enough," she said. "If I wish to sleep, I—I will."

"You may use my cloak if you need to."

She could only stare at him, uncomprehending. Here was the generous man Eowyn had spoken of! Where had he been these last years? Hiding in the mountains?

"I did not mean to offend," Éomer said, withdrawing visibly. She imagined that he read a measure of her emotions in her face.

"No," she said. "You did not offend." Resentment was simmering in her blood. Perhaps it was the creaking moans of the wind outside, or the thought that they might be dead soon, or that they were alone for the first time. Lothíriel took a moment to choose her words, could not think of anything more diplomatic, and finally blurted, "Why did you not come to me on our wedding night?"

Éomer's mouth fell open, and Lothíriel's anger flared. Had he not thought it an issue? Had he not considered the repercussions that _she_ would suffer; the gossip of the servants, the empty womb, the childless life, the loveless marriage . . .

"I beg your pardon?" he sputtered. " _You_ locked me out!"

She gasped. "I did _not_!"

"You—you—what?"

They stared at each other across the fire, both expressions equal parts confused, deflated, angry, and hurt. Lothíriel began to shiver; the night's dropping temperature finally being felt in the cavern. "I did not lock you out!" she snapped. "That is really a horrible lie to place at my feet."

Éomer sneered. "I heard you lock it. I was in my study, I could hear everything!"

"Why were you in your study? Ought not a bridegroom be in his bed?"

"I—I—I...was gathering my courage."

"Lies."

"Oi!"

Lothíriel eyed him warily. This was not what she expected. She had thought to finally hear an admission that he was not attracted to her, that he did not even like her, or that he loved another woman. She could not at all remember locking the door, except—

"I was exploring the room," she said, lifting her eyes to meet his. "I was nervous and wandering around, admiring the tapestries. I wanted to see what was in the next room but—" she paused. "I did not know what it was, and I was too frightened to open the door. You must have heard me fumble the latch, but I swear I did not lock it."

He did not speak, studying her with intensity.

"Did you check the lock?" Lothíriel asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

"...No."

"There it is, then."

* * *

Éomer could not tear his gaze away from his wife. Somehow, in their unexpected parlay, his rage was ebbing away. Could a year of misery really be caused by a misunderstanding, and then resolved in two minutes' conversation? If that was the case, he should have spoken to her sooner! "I am a stupid man," he muttered to himself. "A stupid, stupid man."

"No argument there."

His brows drew together, expecting a spitting argument with Lothíriel, but her eyes were tired. His heart softened, and fluttered. "Not even a cursory protest?" he asked, feigning a hurt expression.

"Certainly not," she shook her head, and a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. "No mercy for you, husband mine. I cannot believe you did not even check the lock! I am beginning to think I married a dunderhead."

Instead of offending him, which such a speech would have mere moments ago, Éomer felt like laughing. "You ought to have known I am a dunderhead ages ago," he said, playing along. "Shows how well you know me."

Lothíriel glared at him—not a mean glare, but a scolding one. It reminded him of the way that his sister looked at Faramir. "That is your own fault," she pointed out.

" _Our_ fault," he said, grinning at her. She blushed and looked away, which surprised him. Éomer had never seen a crack in her emotional armor. That he knew little of his wife was no shock, but the woman he was seeing tonight was indeed astonishing. His perception of her was changing. Before they married he had thought her beautiful; after their wedding night he believed her cold and unfriendly. Now she was a tease, a goose, and a goddess of beauty. Her riding clothes suited her slim body so well that he felt his throat tighten. "Lothíriel," he said gruffly. "Could—do you think we could—somehow—?"

* * *

Lothíriel knew what he was trying to say. His fumbling with words, hitherto annoying, was now endearing. When had that happened? She could never deny her attraction to him, but she had hardened her heart for so long that he had ceased to affect her. Only, her heart was softening, and in place of resentment a seed of desperation was growing with the merest petals of desire.

"Éomer," she interrupted, relaxing her stance and leaning against the stone wall. "I—I do not think that we are ruined forever."

A clear look of relief was on his face. She felt like laughing, and giddiness was welling within her. She shivered.

"Are you cold?" Éomer turned stern. Lothíriel stared, fascinated, as he scooted closer to her and picked one one of her chilled hands in his own. He had never touched her of his own volition before! Their previous touches had been mechanical, necessary, and never warm. How was his hand so warm when she was so cold? His eyes were sweeping across her face, as if trying to know her temperature.

"I—I am fine, really," she lied. An uncomfortable awareness of how close he was was tingling across her skin.

"Bullocks."

"Fine! I am _freezing_!" Lothíriel snapped, wrenching her hand away. "Go—go sit over there."

He made no indication of having heard her, instead ruffling out his cloak and pulling her close to wrap her close to his chest. She was snug, and the radiating warmth from his body was a blessed relief. Lothíriel let loose a tiny sigh before forcing herself to be vexed with him once more. "That was awfully high-handed of you," she muttered.

"You are quite welcome, wife."

The fire burned steadily, and with the comforting thumps of Éomer's heartbeat filling her ears, Lothíriel closed her eyes. They would get out of the cave somehow, in the morning, in the morning. . .

* * *

Éomer liked the feel of her petite body snuggled up close to his. In fact, he probably liked it too much. All of the attraction and feelings he had been suppressing since their wedding night seemed to be surfacing with a force like a great, monstrous wave. Her scent, even after days of travel, was overwhelming his senses. He nuzzled his cold nose into her hair, breathing deeply before planting a light kiss on her head. She buried in deeper to his arms, mumbling something—in Sindarin, he thought it was. Despite the past hours of her shivering, she felt very warm underneath his hands. Or perhaps he had helped that along.

He stared into the fire for a while before his eyelids began to droop, and with a sigh he finally leaned his head back and relaxed.

* * *

Lothíriel woke with a shudder, feeling cold seeping into her skin as her eyes flew open. The cave was dark; the fire had obviously burned out, and there was nary a wisp of smoke in the air. She heard soft snores above her, and she looked to see Éomer fast asleep, his head sagged and his arms having loosened their hold on her. No wonder she was freezing! She gritted her teeth before reaching up a hand to pat—none too gently—her husband's cheek to wake up. He sat bolt upright as soon as she touched his face, staring at her furious face for a moment before shaking himself.

"Thank you for the fright," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. "Though it is unnecessary for you to slap me to get my attention. What is it?"

"I did not slap you," she said, and then paused. Why _had_ she woken him? She could have restarted the fire herself. Did she wish to make him feel guilty for no longer holding her tight and warm? She scowled at him, as if it were his fault.

"It has gotten a bit nippy," Éomer said in a decisive tone, and wish a flush she realized he had looked her up and down to ascertain the level of cold in the cave. She folded her arms across her chest, and he grinned wolfishly at her.

"I _will_ slap you again if you continue to stare at me so," she snapped. "Now that you are awake, why don't you start another fire? I am about five minutes from becoming an icicle."

Without warning, but still wearing his grin, Éomer lifted his fingers and found the skin on the back of her neck, before plunging his hand deeper. She squealed and fell from his lap, giving him the most derisive scowl she could as she felt goose pimples spread across her back. "Your hands are ice!" she snapped. "Do not do that again!"

"Were they cold?" he asked, a glint in his eye.

"Of course!"

"Well, your skin was warm; I think you are safe from becoming an icicle, at least for now. But—there is no more wood for a fire. Perhaps you did not notice?"

Lothíriel had not noticed; a quick glance around the cave confirmed that he was correct. She bit her lip to keep from moaning aloud in misery, she could not let Éomer see how worried she was. They had only been asleep for a few hours, there still was no light shining through the rocks that blocked the cave. How much longer would they be stuck there?

"Come back." Éomer's voice was low, almost repentant from his joke. She sniffed, giving him a look so that he would know that she was still upset with him, but she returned to his side anyway, desperate for the warmth he offered. "I am sorry," he added, and she felt him pressed his chilled cheek against her forehead as he held her close once more. "It was bad of me."

Lothíriel huffed but said nothing, tucking her hands under her arms to warm them.

He gave a start, released her and dug around inside his vest for a moment before pulling out a pair of large gloves. "I forgot that I had these," he said. "Here—you should wear them."

"I could not!" she protested, but he was already lifting one of her hands to try to shove a glove on. "Stop! I will do it." The gloves hung off of her tiny hands, and after they were secured by the ties at the wrist (Éomer did have to help her with that part), she wiggled her hands around, watching the excess glove flop around. He laughed, and pulled her back into an embrace. "Thank you," she said after a moment, feeling an ounce of heat seeping back into her hands from the rabbit-fur which lined the gloves.

"You are most welcome, wife. Anything I can do to ensure your comfort."

Days ago, and Lothíriel would have expected him of sarcasm. But she was learning a new side to her husband, and she gave a small sigh, daring to like the sensation of his arms around her. She tilted her head upward, her brows creased as she considered this part of him, and he smiled back down at her. "Are you cold anywhere else?" he asked.

She thought for a moment, and then said, "My face is rather cold."

"It is exposed, after all," Éomer chuckled, and then to her astonishment he leaned down to nuzzle her icy cheeks, leaving kisses that somehow began to make her skin tingle with heat. "Better?" he asked as he pulled away.

"Y—yes, I suppose so," Lothíriel stammered. It truly was strange how he could make her feel so warm with such little touch!

The grin on his face was fading as he studied her, his expression hardening into something more...ferocious and hungry. Lothíriel shuddered, and this time it was not from the cold. She had only a moment to breathe before his mouth descended again—this time for her lips.

* * *

Éomer could not help kissing her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. To his relief, she seemed to respond in a positive way, and he pulled her into his lap to make the kissing easier. He could feel her gloved hands around his neck, and he found (not to his surprise), that he liked her holding him, as if she wanted him there. Somehow in the following minutes she came to be straddling him, and his hands gripped her waist tightly as she kissed him back with a fierceness that surprised him, but of which he would not complain. Suddenly she broke away, and breathing heavily, said, "I am quite warm now, thank you."

"I am glad you are warm," he murmured, taking in the sight of her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "Because now _I_ am cold. Will you take sympathy upon a creature as wretched as I?"

In response she kissed him once more, her chest pressing to his, and he felt her heart thumping even through their respective layers of clothing. His hands brushed downward, noticing that part of her tunic was askew, and he could feel the soft, and indeed very hot skin at her waist underneath his fingertips. If she noticed, she did not indicate so. Daringly, his hand crept upwards, and he felt bumps break out across her skin. Éomer could not—or did not wish to—stop himself, and he held her firm with one arm around her back while his wandering hand found her breast.

Lothíriel broke away with a strangled gasp, and when he opened his eyes he saw her staring at him with an undeterminable expression. "You are warm," he defended himself.

"Only because of you," she admitted, her chest heaving. "Éomer—I am sorry—please continue. I am feeling more comfortable than I have in days."

He did not need to be told twice; deciding that it might be comfortable if… He grunted, tugging off his cloak and throwing it on the ground before lowering his wife to lay upon it. She pulled his face downwards, and her lips were hot as they opened to his. He tried to position himself beside her, but the wall of the cave blocked him, and he remained hovering, one knee between her legs. He felt her hands exploring his neck and shoulders, perhaps looking for entrance into his own tunic, and he broke off the kiss, burying his face into her neck to breathe in her wonderful scent as he tried to catch his breath.

"Éomer…" she said in her soft voice, thick with desire, her throat vibrating as he began to kiss it. "How—how awful is it to make love in—in a cave?"

"It will be cold," he said. "But Lothíriel...I am scorching hot! It is a little stifling in here, do you not think?"

"I am a trifle warm," she admitted, and he lifted his head to see a red flush spread across her visible skin; her cheeks, her neck… Her dark lashes were lowered, and remarkably, Éomer felt his heart thud most oddly at the sight. A lump rose in his throat.

"Lothíriel...I do not think I can express how sorry I am that I—I—did not come to you on our wedding night."

She looked up at him, biting her lip. "Show me how you feel," she whispered. "Show me."

And so he did.

* * *

Rocks shifted, and a cheery face peeked into the cave, before hallo-ing at the scrambling inhabitants. "Good morning, sire. My lady."

Lothíriel had crouched behind Éomer as soon as the sound of men lugging rocks had finally reached the cave, and she lowered her head behind his bare back, somehow knowing that she and Éomer were about to become a very popular joke. He, at least, had no shame, and bellowed with laughter as the sight registered with their rescuers. "Poor timing, Éothain," he boomed, as Lothíriel tried to reach her scattered clothes without leaving her safe place behind him. "Though at least you were not a half-hour earlier."

Shouts of laughter could be heard from outside, and Éothain chuckled, "You dog! I could trap you back in if you would like, and come back later."

"No!" Lothíriel cried. "No! I am—I am starving—"

"Of course, my lady," Éothain's tone was much gentler as he addressed her. "We will have you out faster than the king can dress himself, you can bet on that!"


	14. Saving the Day

Éomer felt ill-used indeed.

Having come to Elphir's house in Minas Tirith with the purpose of visiting with his friend and to pay his respects to his family, it seemed the most rotten luck to have somehow, someway been foisted upon with an infant while both her mother and father had been called from the receiving room to deal with other issues. The mother's business being her other child; the father's being a fight breaking out in the stableyard only ten minutes later. The fight had also drawn Elphir's other servants, and so there were none to take the baby but Éomer himself.

"I am sorry," Elphir had told him, just before ducking out of the door. "I will be back in a moment—she will likely sleep until then—"

Éomer had taken the babe when it was offered to him, and truth be told he had no quarrel against children in a general sense. But as if sensing the absence of both her parents, little Gilmith had soon after opened her eyes and began to squall loudly. He had never been so painfully aware of his little experience in these sorts of things.

He adjusted her in his arms into what might be a more comfortable position, and for a moment she quieted, large crystal tears shimmering in her bright blue eyes as she stared up at him. Then her lip trembled. Wails filled the chamber, and Éomer blinked as his ears rang. He stood, babe in arm, and rocked her gently from side to side. No luck. So he held Gilmith to his face, murmuring some sort of nonsense that babies seemed to like. She didn't.

The shrieking was so loud that he did not notice the door opening until he saw a woman enter the room.

"I heard crying," she said above the noise, and dimples formed in her cheeks as she smiled at him. "I wondered if Elphir was such a bad host that he had made you bawl."

Éomer tried to return the smile, recognizing Elphir's younger sister and Imrahil's youngest child, but could not help feeling an enormous sense of relief as she glided into the chamber and took the babe.

"There, there, Gilmith," Lothíriel said softly, propping the child against her shoulder. Immediately Gilmith hiccuped and quieted, perhaps recognizing kin. Éomer felt this was inherently unfair—evidently he could not have comforted the baby, anyway. Once peace reigned again, the woman said, "I passed Elphir in the corridor, he said that you may need assistance. It seems a good thing that I came."

Éomer thought so, too, though he tried not to be offended at Elphir's lack of faith in him. This must have shown, for Lothíriel's smiled broadened as she bounced the baby absently. "It did seem ill-fortune to be left alone with Gilmith," Éomer hastened to say before she could tease him further. "But I understand he could not take her himself."

"No," Lothíriel agreed. "It was kind of you to stay, nonetheless."

His pride was soothed.

The baby sighed, and Lothíriel gave her plump cheeks a series of kisses. The tragic, panicked weeping was over, then. Éomer breathed more easily.

"You seem to have some skill with children," he said to her.

"Hmm? I am not so sure, but it is kind of you to say," Lothíriel smiled. "It is true I have spent a great deal of time with them—I have always helped brother's wives in any way I can."

"How is Erchirion?" Éomer asked.

"Very fine—his family are in Dol Amroth. He enjoys overseeing re-building projects, and there is no shortage." She moved the babe to sit on her hip, and picked up an end of the blanket to wipe a dribble of spit from Gilmith's chin. Gilmith smiled, kicking her legs happily. Éomer grinned; the child's joy was contagious.

"I was wondering if the reason for her crying was a dislike of my face," he said. He reached out a finger to tickle the baby's exposed toes, and Gilmith gave him an open-mouthed smile.

"That would be hard to believe," Lothíriel admitted, and then for some reason Éomer saw her cheeks turn pink. It suddenly recalled to his mind something which Imrahil had said months ago, following the war, " _You need a wife; if you cannot or wish not to look yourself, I would put forth my daughter as an option. A very good one, too."_

Not having the time to consider it, Éomer had put the matter from his immediate concern. Now it returned in full force, and he stared at the lady. Now that he gave her due thought, he saw that she was not as plain as first sight. She was cooing at the babe, and the heightened color from her earlier words made her rather pretty. Imrahil had mentioned Lothíriel's grace and kindness and how well she could manage a household, but not her love of children. It seemed a fair oversight.

While he was immersed in his thoughts, Gilmith had begun to fuss once more. Lothíriel set the baby on a cushion and wrapped her tightly in the blanket, and then picked her up again. She shushed for a few minutes, walking around the chamber and bouncing the girl in her arms. Éomer leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. At least he was not alone with the baby himself.

Lothíriel began to sing. Éomer recognized Sindarin, but not the song.

" _Tiro laes min galadhdaen_

 _Ir i hûl hwesta i chaust rithatha_

 _Ir i 'olf râg i chaust dannatha_

 _A delithar dad laes, haust a bân…"_

He yawned. It had been a long day, and warm sunlight streamed into the sitting room. The song was very pleasant, too, and he wondered if it had some elvish magic in it. He had heard elves had such powers in music…

But that would be a consideration for another time. Éomer's eyes drooped.

* * *

Lothíriel passed the sleeping babe to her brother, who took his daughter gratefully.

"Thank you," he said, hushed. "And I apologize that I could not return sooner. Gilmiel is with Alphros, and—"

"All is well," she interrupted with a smile. "I am glad to have helped."

"Yes, it does seem you were needed."

Both siblings glanced towards the third adult in the room, who was slouched in his chair and snoring loudly. Lothíriel bit back a laugh; as well as she liked the king of Rohan, seeing him in such a state was vastly amusing. Elphir was grinning as well, and he motioned for them to leave the chamber. Lothíriel glanced back into the room, studying the man therein for the briefest of moments, and then shut the door quietly behind them.

Her father was right. He would do very well.


	15. Not the Cook

_15 March 3019 TA., Minas Tirith_

To say Éomer's nerves were frayed would be an understatement. He stalked through the corridors of Imrahil's abandoned house with a black scowl, still wearing his blood-splattered armor. Energy and lust for battle still hummed through his veins, though the plains below had quieted some hours earlier. But beneath that, his bones were weary and his stomach was twisted with grief and nausea and hunger all at once. He shouldered through a half-open oaken door and into the kitchens, stopping in his tracks as he realized the house was not as deserted as Imrahil had said.

A tall woman, clad in a white-dusted pinafore with her dark curls falling behind her back, was standing behind a table. The sleeves of her dark blue frock were rolled up, and her arms were covered in flour. She glanced up at him upon his entrance, and paused mid-knead.

"I need food," Éomer said abruptly. "At once." Her brows lifted, and he was aware of a spark of annoyance in her eyes. He could not see what color they were from this distance.

"I see," she said. "Well, you will have to wait patiently along with the rest of the men."

The serenity and disdain with which she spoke rankled Éomer. What right did a servant have to speak to him this way? He glowered, but she only lifted her chin higher. "There must be something," he growled. "Anything—I would eat anything right now."

"You shall have to eat nothing." Her smile was no more than a smirk. "Your host has sent most of our provisions to the camps and to the Healing Houses. But as you can see—I am preparing something for supper now. If you are willing to wait—"

"I have been _waiting_ for a decent meal for hours!"

"And you will only have to wait an hour more. The prince will return, and you may eat with him then."

Éomer's lip curled in a snarl. He did not like this woman's haughty words and mein, not a bit. "I shall be telling Imrahil of his ill-mannered cook," he said bitingly. "I assure you that!"

"Imrahil's cook has fled the city," the woman said coolly.

"Then what are _you_?"

"I am _cooking_ , to be sure, but _I_ am not the cook."

He fumed, clenching his jaw as he stared the woman down. She did not relent, and continued to gaze at him balefully. It was obvious he had no choice in the matter. "Fine," he snapped. "I will return then."

"By all means." This agreement reached, she returned her attention to the dough on the table. Éomer glared a moment more, and then turned on his heel to leave.

Imrahil had assured him he would be joining Éomer in his home soon; the prince lingered in the Healing Houses to see to his youngest son, who had been injured in battle. He forced himself to remember to be grateful for the prince's hospitality—beds were limited in the city, and Éomer would be sleeping on the ground on Pelennor otherwise. Snippy cook aside, there were few others who were so fortunate. Then again, no one else had become king that very day, either.

He found an empty bedchamber, and entered it. There was no fire in the hearth, and the pitcher on the washstand was empty. Éomer sighed and began to peel off stinking, dirty layers of clothing. With nothing clean to wear he had to suffice with his filthy tunic and breeches. It was a relief to remove his mail and armor, and he went in search of water to wash up. _Not_ in the kitchen.

By the time Imrahil did arrive, Éomer was sitting in the prince's gardens, which afforded a view of well-tended shrubberies and even some stone statues. The sky had grown dim, and the clouds had retreated towards the east enough to see sparkling stars above the city. He was trying not to think of his uncle's broken body, or Éowyn's wan face as she suffered. There would be plenty of time to remember it later; really, at present, Éomer just wanted to rest and think of nothing at all.

Imrahil had brought Erchirion with him, and the three of them made for the kitchens. They still wore their armor. Erchirion said in an aside to Éomer that he was too famished to waste another moment. The other man's face was pale and splattered with black blood, which Éomer had washed from his own. He sympathized.

The table in the kitchen had been cleaned and set with plain bowls. Éomer sighed and sat at the bench, warily Éomer glancing around. The woman stood apart from them, her hands clenched together in front of her, her face pale. Imrahil made directly for her, and without a word he wrapped his arms around her shoulders tightly.

What in Arda—

There was a whimper. "Father!" she said, her voice choked. "Amrothos—?"

"He is well," Imrahil said, and released her, kissing the top of her head. "Ioreth gave him medicine to help him sleep, you will be able to see him yourself tomorrow."

 _Father_? Oh, Béma.

The woman was wiping tears from her face now, and her voice grew stronger. "Sit, Father!" she said. "You must eat. I will serve you tonight."

Erchirion stepped forward as his father obeyed the command, hugging his apparent sister, saying, "Lothíriel, you shouldn't—"

"Nonsense! You all look as though you are dead on your feet. I am quite fine. You sit, too, Erch."

Both men did as she ordered. Éomer stared as she brought a pitcher of water, and filled their cups without looking at him. Imrahil evidently noticed this, and he said,

"Lothíriel, this is Éomer of Rohan. Éomer, this is my daughter."

"Well met, Lord," she muttered, inclining her head towards him as she glided around the table to pour his goblet. Still she did not look him in the face.

"My lady," Éomer said stiffly.

There was an unspoken agreement not to discuss the recent battle, and so instead of the blood and gore and death they had witnessed that day, Imrahil spoke lightly of his home by the sea. The prince was a gifted orator, and so Éomer had only to listen with unfeigned interest as he ate ravenously of the fresh bread and vegetable stew which the Lady Lothíriel served them. Once their bowls were filled, she sat near her father, though she did not eat, and only gazed into her father's face as if she was not quite sure that he was alive. Éomer tried not to watch her.

The kitchen darkened eventually, apart from a few candles which Lothíriel had lit. Éomer was feeling uncomfortably full of stew and his exhaustion was finally catching up. Erchirion was gazing off into the middle-distance, obviously elsewhere, and Lothíriel was leaning her head against her father's shoulder, armor and all. Imrahil had ceased talking some time before, but broke the silence.

"It has been a long day. We should rest while we can."

Éomer agreed to this, and Erchirion finally stirred, yawning hugely and dragging himself up and taking himself to bed. He bade his father and sister goodnight, and then disappeared. Éomer stood as well.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Imrahil," he said, and then inclined his head towards the lady. "And thank you, Lothíriel, for the meal. It was most welcome." He hoped he did not sound bitter—for now that he was sated, his temper was reined.

"Good night, Lord," she said, barely casting him a glance.

"Come, Lothíriel—you must rest too."

Éomer left the kitchens for the room he had found earlier, though he heard whispering exchanged between father and daughter behind him as they followed.

* * *

 _16 March 3019 TA, Minas Tirith_

Éomer woke the next morning to see a pile of clean clothing on a chair by the door, and saw that his dirty clothing had been taken away. There was also water on the washstand and clean cloths. He immediately went about rubbing the dirt and sweat from his skin, blessing Imrahil's servants for their foresight.

But the house remained empty as he went exploring—eerily empty. Not even Imrahil was to be found, nor was his son. Éomer wandered aimlessly, admiring the white stone walls which sparkled in the bright sunlight. It had been so long since he had seen the sun that he wondered if that what was causing him to feel so queer.

He eventually came to the courtyard which the house had been built around. An iron-wrought gate lead to the street of the sixth circle, and Éomer stepped forward. He was surprised to see a line of freshly washed clothing, including his own. He meant to thank the servant doing the chore, which must not have been pleasant—when Lothíriel stepped around a tunic, pinning it on the line. Her hair was windblown and she wore another blue dress with a white apron. She had not noticed his approach, and was singing quietly to herself. Éomer could not hear the words.

S _he_ had washed his clothing? Had she taken it from his room? While he was sleeping? Oh, Béma!

Éomer stood, shocked still, and eventually Lothíriel turned and saw him. She stared at him for a moment, and then turned back to her work without a word. He walked forward, forcing himself to swallow his pride.

"I wish to apologize for my behavior yesterday," he said without preamble. "I was rude to you, and unnecessarily so."

"Hmm, yes." Lothíriel shook out a pair of trousers from a basket and held it to the line one-handed, pulling out a pin from her apron pocket. She met his gaze over the line, and he saw that her eyes were bright blue. Her lips pressed together, and she admitted, "I could have behaved better myself. Please accept my own apology."

"Of course."

There was a silence as Lothíriel next hung up a vest. "Erchirion is still abed, and my father is in Merethrond with captain of the city," she said. "I am afraid our courtesies are lacking at present."

"It is no matter," Éomer said. "Have you been to the Healing Houses yet?"

"No—Father went early and returned to tell me that Amrothos had not woken yet. I am going to go once I am finished here."

He watched her movements, wondering. It seemed wrong that the prince's daughter act a laundress. "Are there no other servants?" he asked.

"No. They have all gone."

"Why did you not go?"

Lothíriel paused, her eyes meeting his. There was a defiance and a pride in them which looked unmistakably like her father. "If I am to die," she said slowly. "It will not be fleeing from the enemy. I will die in my home, on my terms."

"And what of Dol Amroth—why are you not there?"

"It was less safe than Minas Tirith, until several days ago." She snapped out a final tunic. "There was no time for me to return. My eldest brother is there now—he protected it from the corsairs." Éomer had no response—he was too familiar with the difficult decisions to be made in times of war. The lady picked up the now empty basket, and made for the house.

He followed her. "May I walk with you to the Healing Houses?" he asked to her rigid back.

She did not pause until they reached a chamber clearly set aside for laundry. The basket was left on the floor, and she turned to face him. Their eyes met, and she said, "You may."

The streets of Minas Tirth were a bustle of activity after the desertion of Imrahil's house—soldiers wrapped in blankets dozed wherever they could, and many people wearing the grey garb of the healers rushed about. They carried dirty linens and clean linens, food and medicines. Upon entering the Healing Houses, it was only a fraction more organized—at least the healer they spoke to was able to tell them exactly where their respective siblings had been put.

It was there they parted—Lothíriel took her leave of Éomer without looking back, anxiously making her way towards where Amrothos was sitting upright in bed. His grin was visible across the chamber, his leg wrapped in a snowy-white bandage. Éomer turned towards the small, private room where Éowyn was.

His sister lay still with her back towards him, though she cocked her head at his approach. Her eyes were rimmed with purple bruises, and she said nothing. Éomer sat beside her bed and took her uninjured hand in his own. He could not speak, either. There was silence between them, but it was a companionable quiet Éomer would not break. Only sounds from beyond were heard—healers chattering and wounded soldiers moaning. But it was far beyond.

He parted from her when a healer brought a tray of food. Éomer kissed her head and wished her to heal quickly, but she did not look at him. Her cheeks were flushed red. Had Aragorn not said her fever was broken? Why did she still appear so ill? He would ask his friend, when he saw him next…

Wandering through the House, he paused to greet his men who were there. Some were conscious, some were not. Those that could speak, mourned for Theoden King. Some asked of Éowyn. All bowed their heads as he moved on, murmuring, " _Éomer Cyning_."

Lothíriel still sat by her brother's cot, and he was telling her something that was making her laugh. Éomer considered returning to Imrahil's house alone, but it did not seem right. So he found an empty bench in the gardens, which was nearly empty. Likely most had gone off for their noon meals. He recalled that he had not eaten since the previous night, and ached for it. Absently he fingered the embroidered end of his borrowed tunic. Sorrow weighed down his heart, and bowed his head.

When he next looked up, he saw Lothíriel standing over him, gazing strangely at him. He forced a smile.

"Are you ready to return?" he asked.

"Yes. You did not need to wait."

"Perhaps not." Éomer stood, and this time he remembered manners, and offered her his arm. A moment's pause, and she took it. "How is your brother?" he asked.

"Very well, all things considered," Lothíriel replied, and there was a twitch of withheld humor about her mouth. "He was fortunate not to lose his leg. Though he _did_ say that the healers wished to remove it anyway, because his feet smelled so ripe."

Éomer laughed aloud, causing eyes to stare at them as they stepped into the street. To his surprise, the lady laughed too, and suddenly the air between them was not so strained.

"I am sure he was teasing me," she declared after a few moments as they quieted. "Most of the healers are women—Amrothos has always had a way with women. They would not have dared to take off the leg of the most handsome man in the city."

"Oh! I see how one must go about gaining preferential treatment here, then."

"You will have to change your ways drastically," Lothíriel said. "That is, if you are in the habit of demanding food of every woman you meet."

Éomer stared down at her, wondering if she was teasing. Her mouth was set, but there was a definite twinkle in her eyes as she met his gaze. "I usually treat women more fairly," he said solemnly. "And in my defense, I did not know you were Imrahil's daughter."

"Well! Perhaps I ought to write my name on parchment and pin it to my breast. That will leave no room for doubt."

He nodded sagely. "A very good idea; you should do so without delay."

Lothíriel gave a snort of laughter, and he hid a smile. Éomer steered their path towards the edge of the path, which looked down at the plains and city below. He tried not to look at the blackened, burning mounds and the skeletons of siege equipment, and instead focused on the mass of pale tents in a cleared area outside the gate. He wondered how his men fared. He would go down to see them. Later.

Lothíriel straightened, and Éomer was pulled away from the edge. He saw what had caused her shift in attention—Imrahil strode up the street towards them, lifting his hand in greeting. "I was searching for you!" he said to Éomer as he approached. "We are needed in the camp."

Éomer's skin prickled, and he felt Lothíriel's hand on his arm tremble before she removed it.

"When will you return?" she asked her father.

Imrahil gazed at her, his brow creased. "I do not know. Do not wait for us, Lothíriel. You have done much already." She nodded at this, and her father quickly squeezed her hand. "Come, Éomer."

Éomer glanced back at the lady as he went forth with Imrahil. She was a forlorn figure alone in the street, wringing her hands. But there was a small smile for him, and she was out of sight.

* * *

 _They were silent for a while. At length Aragorn spoke. 'As I have begun, so I will go on. We come now to the very brink, where hope and despair are akin. To waver is to fall. Let none now reject the counsels of Gandalf, whose long labours against Sauron come at last to their test. But for him all would long ago have been lost. Nonetheless I do not yet claim to command any man. Let others choose as they will.'_

 _'As for myself,' said Éomer, 'I have little knowledge of these deep matters; but I need it not. This I know, and it is enough, that as my friend Aragorn succoured me and my people, so I will aid him when he calls. I will go.'_

 _'As for me,' said Imrahil, 'the Lord Aragorn I hold to be my liege-lord, whether he claim it or no. His wish is to me a command. I will go also."_

* * *

 _17 March 3020 TA., Minas Tirith_

Éomer splashed water on his face, scrubbing away the grit of dirt and worry which had layered on during the day. He would enjoy the opportunity to wash while he could. For soon there would be none.

He dried himself with a neatly folded cloth left there by Lothíriel, and left his darkening chamber in search of company or supper. It had been a terribly long day, which had left him numb and exhausted. The prospect of another days-long, grueling march and a battle at the end of it was an unpleasant one. Surely Erchirion would have returned by now; he had followed soon after Éomer's departure from the camp. They, along with Aragorn, Imrahil, Gandalf and others had planned the details for their march. The discussion had not ended until the sun was nearing the horizon.

Imrahil's house was silent and dark. Éomer wondered briefly if even Lothíriel was there, or if perhaps she was in the Healing Houses with her brother. Éomer would have to bid farewell to Éowyn that evening, and his throat tightened. The weight of responsibility was heavy on his shoulders.

A light was shining from the kitchens, and he pushed the door open.

Lothíriel sat in a chair by a crackling hearth fire, her elbow on the armrest and her chin resting in her hand, staring into the flames. A torn tunic was spread out on her lap, and absently she fiddled with a needle. Her brows were creased, and as he watched, a long sigh expelled itself from her lips.

"Good evening," Éomer said, lacking the wit for anything more clever. His voice was unnaturally loud in the empty chamber. She turned abruptly in her chair, staring at him for a moment before laughing breathlessly.

"You startled me, my lord. I was woolgathering." Lothíriel tucked a stray curl behind her ear, a wry smile on her face. "But it is warranted—I must finish mending Erch's tunic before...before t—tomorrow." On the final word her voice broke, and she looked away from him. Éomer pretended not to see her wiping her eye surreptitiously with the hem of Erchirion's tunic—evidently she knew of the upcoming march. He did not know what to say, and after a moment she cleared her throat.

"Is my father returning tonight? And Erch?"

"Yes, I believe so. Imrahil stayed late to speak to Aragorn, but I am sure he will be here soon."

Lothíriel nodded. "And have you seen to your sister yet?"

"Er—no. I did not have the opportunity this morning before I left for the camp." Éomer strode towards the hearth, feeling that this conversation might be less awkward if they were not speaking across the chamber to each other. It was bright and warm—he had not realized the chill of evening. Lothíriel's face was aglow with the light as she gazed up at him.

"She is well—I think. Or...I am not sure," she said. "I saw her this afternoon; she was pacing her room though the healers told her she oughtn't to. I considered speaking to her, thinking she may appreciate the company. But I could not be so bold." Lothíriel gave a rueful smile. "Your sister is an intimidating woman."

Éomer laughed. "Less so than you think! Though she has made a habit of staring down any who wish to approach her. You may have better fortune speaking to her than I do—I notice that sometimes women prefer to speak to other women than they do their menfolk."

Lothíriel's smile grew into something genuine, and he saw dimples form in her cheeks. "Especially their older brothers."

"Indeed, and I hardly understand _why_ …"

When their shared laughter was finished, there was a quiet silence as they stared at each other. For Éomer's part, he was trying to understand this woman: the hardworking lady who cared for her battle-weary father and brother, who visited another brother in the Healing Houses and who saw the despair in Éowyn and wished to ease it. He had misjudged her, that first night.

"Well!" Lothíriel said at once, breaking the spell. "There is a cold pie I should warm before my father returns; we can eat then. Is there—is there anything I can do for _you_ , my lord?"

Éomer blinked at her as she stood, neatly folding the tunic and placing it on her chair. At his confusion, she continued patiently, "If you need anything mended or cleaned or anything else, I am happy to assist. I—I would do my part, however I can."

"I can think of nothing," he said, taken aback by this generous offer. Had she not done enough? Or did she wish to busy herself to stay off the darkness? That much he could understand, and Éomer continued, "And can I assist you in any way, lady? It can be no easy task to keep this house with no help."

For an unknown reason, Lothíriel flushed. "It is nothing," she demurred, and her eyes dropped. "To be quite honest, it is more difficult—a thousand times more difficult!—to watch my father and brothers leave to fight while I must stay behind with no word of whether they live or die."

It was the most natural thing in the world, in that moment, for Éomer to reach out and pick up her hand, clasping it in his own as if to comfort her. Perhaps her words were so similar to something Éowyn might say—his heart was wrenching in sympathy for the lady. Startled, she looked up.

"I am sorry," he said, feeling foolish.

"N—no! Not at all," Lothíriel said quickly. "If—if you are not averse...there is something I can give you. To wish you luck and good fortune." She wrenched her hand away from his, and dug in the pocket of her pinafore to produce an embroidered handkerchief, neatly pressed and folded. "If your sister is too ill to send a token, then I will," she said boldly, and utterly surprising him, she kissed the handkerchief, and held it out to him.

"Thank you," Éomer said, and accepted it. He was astonished by Lothíriel's kindness. She was smiling at him even now, and when he could not find the words to express himself, she added simply,

"Come back, Lord."

He had not yet allowed himself to consider whether he would return from this battle or not. And still he was not ready to think of it. Éomer tucked the handkerchief into his vest, and returned the lady's smile.

"With your blessing, I would hardly dare to do otherwise," he said lightly.

"Good," she said, and after a moment she frowned slightly. "And I would like to give you one more thing. A memory. One that I might treasure, too." And Lothíriel stepped forward, and before he could speak she had stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, and she was kissing him.

Éomer's mind went completely blank, and without thinking he drew the woman into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She was all sweetness and softness; he had forgotten how it felt to embrace a woman. Her curls were soft as he wove his fingers into them, smelling a whiff of flowery soap. A sigh vibrated in her throat, and there was a building of heat in his bones. Lothíriel's hands ran upwards on his chest. His skin burned where she touched even through his tunic. He groaned low in his throat, and his hand rested at the back of her neck to tilt her head upwards so he could kiss her better.

She broke away, breathing heavily through her eyes had fluttered shut. Éomer bent his head further to kiss along her jaw and her creamy, sweet-smelling neck.

"Éomer…" Lothíriel murmured, and in response he merely traversed back to her mouth, tasting her lips and her breath and—

There was a sudden footfall in the corridor, and the lady pushed him away at once. They stared at each other, each baffled in their own way, and the door to the kitchen was opened. Fortunately Imrahil was immersed in a letter he was carrying, and did not see his daughter attempt to smooth her hair while Éomer straightened his tunic.

"Good evening," he said, and Lothíriel greeted him with an innocent kiss on her father's shaven cheek, as if she had not been kissing Éomer a moment before. A odd bubble of humor nearly made him laugh aloud, but he contained himself just barely.

"I have supper," she said quickly, and Imrahil smiled down at her, tucking the letter away.

"Thank you, Lothíriel. A hot meal would be most welcome."

The kitchen filled with the sound of clattering dishes as she set about to work without sparing Éomer another glance, though he did see that her cheeks were quite red. He was pulled into a conversation with Imrahil, but his heart was not in it.

He wondered, in the back of his mind, if it would now be easier or more difficult for him to march to Mordor.

* * *

 _1 May 3020 TA., Minas Tirith_

Éomer's ears were ringing from the noise; it seemed every person in Minas Tirith was lining the streets to the citadel to shout and sing and welcome them into the city. Decidedly uncomfortable with the stares he was receiving, he managed a smile and accepted the adoration, and spurred Firefoot on faster.

The air was littered with flowers, thrown down from window to be trampled underneath horses' hooves and the boots of marching soldiers. There was little formation anymore; many broke away to greet family or sweethearts, and it seemed nearly everyone was shedding tears.

He wanted Éowyn. He ached to see his sister again, to ensure that she was fully well again. And though he would not admit it, he wanted to see Lothíriel, too. He wanted her to know that he was safe, that he had kept her handkerchief and though it was now filthy and stained, knowing that her thoughts were with him had bolstered him, in those darkest hours…

To his surprise, he heard his sister long before he saw her. She was laughing loud enough to be heard through the gate to the Sixth Circle, and curious, Éomer alighted, leading Firefoot on his reins as he approached Imrahil's house.

There Éowyn stood, arm-in-arm with a dark-haired man whom he did not recognize, and who was smiling broadly at her. On his other arm was Lothíriel, who appeared anxious as she watched the parade of soldiers continue on to the citadel. Her fingers were tight on the man's arm. Éowyn caught sight of him first, and she left her companions to rush towards Éomer. He caught her in a fierce embrace, amazed at the change that had overcome her. How long had it been since she had been in such lively spirits?

"Éomer! Oh, brother!" Éowyn's face was streaked with tears, and bemused, Éomer kissed her on each cheek.

"What a greeting!" he said. "A far cry from your farewell, I will tell you that!"

She brushed off the comment, and pulled on his hand towards Imrahil's house. "Come! You must meet Faramir."

Éomer had no choice but to obey his sister, and clasped the hand of the dark-haired man. He was Imrahil's nephew—that much Éomer knew. Faramir's eyes were bright and keen, and he recognized the honor found in the prince.

"I bid you welcome, my lord king," Faramir said, and he inclined his head. Éomer was feeling heat in his face as Lothíriel drank in the sight of him next to her cousin, but he tried to ignore it. He would greet her next…

"Well met, Steward," Éomer told him. He noticed them the way that Éowyn was watching Faramir, with affection warming her expression and positively suffusing her face with the glow of devotion and love.

Oh, Béma.

Pointedly ignoring this, he turned next to Lothíriel, who, under his gaze, promptly flushed pink. Her smile was shy for him, and he wondered if she was remembering their kiss before his departure, just as he was. Well, it would hardly do to kiss in farewell and merely shake hands in greeting.

"I am glad to see you returned whole," Lothíriel said demurely, curtsying low.

"I did not dare otherwise," Éomer grinned. And placing Firefoot's reins in his sister's hands, he disregarded proprietary and the shocked gasps beside them, and swept the lady into a heart-tingling, bone-numbing kiss.

So he could not be _too_ annoyed with Éowyn, he supposed.


	16. Nightmare

_Screams_ _pierced through his head, filling his senses with the fear of death and pain and the bloodlust of the enemy. Everywhere around him he saw fallen men, his friends—dead, or wounded, missing arms and legs and spouting blood into the fray. Everything appeared to have a fine red mist over it, and Güthwine weighed down in his hand, heavier than ever before. He smacked his lips at the taste of iron, wondering if if was his own blood, or someone else's._ _A shriek rose above the rest—utterly inhuman and chilling him to the bone. He looked down at his feet, and there lay Firefoot, a horrific slash springing blood from his belly. But where was the enemy? Who had done this; he wanted to fight, he wanted to kill who did this, tear the enemy apart with his bare hands, he wanted—_

"Papa! Papa!"

Éomer jolted awake, a gasp strangling in his throat as he blinked at the suddenness of sunlight as the bedhangings were wrenched open. Before he could orient himself, two scrawny bodies heaved themselves up and pounced upon him, knocking the air out of him with an " _Oof_!"

"Papa! You promised us a ride this morning! Can we go now?" Elfwine's eyes were shining with eagerness, and Eorl was jumping up and down with excitement.

"'Tis too early," came a mumbled reply beside him. Only the top of Lothíriel's black head was visible; she was otherwise buried in the covers and as yet safe from the bouncing bodies. Éomer glanced back out the bedcurtains, where he could see that the light streaming in through the window, which had seemed so bright after his nightmare, was no more than the watery gray of dawn. His heart still raced, but he forced himself to give his attention to his children.

"Well, I suppose I am awake now," he said dryly. "Go on and dress yourselves, and I will be along in a moment." More bouncing, and he was kicked in the leg as their sons jumped off the bed in a tangled heap of limbs, racing back to their own chamber with their feet pattering on the floor. Éomer rubbed his eyes with his hands, still smelling blood as spots appeared in front of his eyes. He was damp all over—the linens clung to his skin, and he peeled them away with a sigh.

How long had it been since he dreamed of the war?

"You are too good," his wife murmured as she shifted towards him. Éomer obligingly drew her close, and she rested her head on his shoulder, either unaware or uncaring of his sweat. He kissed the top of her head.

"It would be nigh on impossible to convince them to sleep longer," he said.

"Too true!"

Unwilling to move quite yet, Éomer ran his fingers through her mussed hair, and the scent of the flowery soap she used cleared his senses of blood. He sighed.

"Are you well?"

He glanced down, and saw that Lothíriel had lifted her head to gaze up at him, her brows creased with worry. Of course his nightmare had not woken her, and he offered the best smile he could and said, "'Twas only a nightmare, my love—but the boys woke me from it."

Her brow quirked upwards, and Éomer knew that she was not believing his nonchalance. But she did not press it, and she leaned forward to kiss him quickly. "They will not wait," Lothíriel informed him sagely. "If you are not ready, they will jump on us again, and which I would rather not."

Éomer chuckled and extracted himself from her embrace, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was fortunate, indeed, that Elfwine and Eorl had woken him. And a brisk morning ride would be just the thing… He rose and began to dress.

"And bring Elfhild to me, if you would."

He paused only to wash his hands and face at the washstand, the water tepid but mightily refreshing, and after drying Éomer strode towards where their daughter still slumbered in her own, small bed.

"How do you sleep through that noise?" he asked her quietly, leaning over to unwrap her blankets. Immediately her dark eyes blinked open, and she yawned hugely. Her arms stretched over her head, and she smiled widely up at her father. Éomer picked her up, ticking her little belly as she kicked her legs eagerly. "Are you hungry? I believe your Mama is ready for you." Elfhild squirmed, and he took her over to Lothíriel, who had unlaced the front of her nightdress. Chuckling to himself and earning a raised brow from his wife, Éomer put the baby down. Elfhild quieted at once, suckling eagerly as Lothíriel smoothed down her daughter's dark hair. "You are looking very lazy today," he informed her.

"Me? Or Elfhild?" she asked with a laugh.

"Both."

Their door was banged open, and Elfwine and Eorl hurtled into the chamber, looking just as disheveled as they had earlier. Well, it hardly mattered—they were going for a ride, anyway. Éomer certainly was not going to try to force either of them to comb their hair.

"We are ready!" Elfwine proclaimed. "Come, Papa!"

"Wait just a moment, I must kiss your mother farewell."

"Eugh!" The boys' twin exclamations of disgust were both ignored, and Éomer leaned over, laughing, to kiss Lothíriel once more. She was smiling in bemusement, and as he was fair hauled away by their sons, one hanging on each of his arms, she called after them—

"Comb your hair before you leave! You three look a mess!"

Conspiratorially Éomer put a finger to his lips, and Elfwine and Eorl giggled loudly, nearly giving them away. As he opened the door, he called back, "Yes, my love!" He heard his wife's huff of disbelief. And as their laughs echoed in the corridor, he forgot his nightmare entirely.


	17. All For You

_Summer 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Bregon's mind was already buzzing with drink when he entered the Guard's Rest that evening. It was a quaint, tidy tavern. Being the only such establishment in the Sixth Circle of Minas Tirith, it was the favorite of the upper classes and nobility. Such patronage was evident—the floor was swept clean, and fresh flowers were kept in bowls on the spotless tables. So immaculate was its reputation that ladies often frequented the establishment in the company of their menfolk. This was one of those nights, and Bregon had been spurred on from a seedier establishment to seek out a _particular_ lady.

He was angry. He was spurned, he was denied, he was rejected, (never mind that this rejection had taken place some years earlier), and he was bitterly envious. He had loved the Princess Lothíriel for _years_ ; he surely had more claim than some upstart Northman! She was _his_. Bregon would allow no other to have her. The liquor of the previous tavern had finally given him the courage to act, and so his occasionally stumbling steps took him to the Guard's Rest.

Torches lined the walls, casting bright, cheery light all around. There was an undercurrent of happiness and laughter, which Bregon pointedly disregarded. He strode in confidently, his chin high, until he came to the regular table of the Dol Amrothian nobility, being filled with four bodies that night. A lively conversation was taking place, but he did not care. He took a place behind the blond man from the north, and prodded him in the unyielding shoulder three times.

 _Poke, poke, poke_.

It took a moment for his presence to be noticed. The King shifted in his chair, as if to dislodge a troublesome fly, and the princess—that beautiful, faultless, unattainable princess, turned to him with concern. Then her eyes flitted past her betrothed, and rested on Bregon.

Her smile faded, and resigned exasperation marred her lovely face.

The princess's brothers had seen him now, too. The elder took a swig of drink, pointedly looking away, but the younger withheld splutters of laughter. Bregon scowled, and nudged the King again, this time more forcefully. At last the man turned in bewilderment, now noticing the diverted attention of his companions, and the King of Rohan's forceful gaze rested on Bregon at last.

"Sir, I have come to call you out," Bregon said loudly, before he could change his mind. "Princess Lothíriel should be _mine_."

"Good heavens, Bregon," Lothíriel interrupted. "You really must give it up—I have already told you that I will not marry you, and quite plainly, too."

"Marry him?" The King's voice was low, powerful. He glanced at his betrothed, and there was a smile on his lips. "I did not know I was your second choice, Lothíriel."

"Oh, hush," Lothíriel said, flushing a little. "Bregon has never courted me, not seriously. We spend some of our youth together, that is all."

"That is _all_?" Bregon exclaimed, hurt by this easy dismissal. "Lothíriel, we were best friends! You cried on my shoulder when your hound died!"

"You mustn't think that our friendship is cause enough to persist in this belief that we are obliged to marry."

Bregon felt his ears burn red, and decided to ignore this reasonable statement. Instead, he faced to the King once more and repeated, his voice faltering slightly, "I have come to call you out."

"Oh, _really_!" Lothíriel snapped, her brows drawn together. "That is the most absurd—"

"If the boy wants satisfaction, I have no objection," The King said, and one of his large hands covered hers underneath the table. Bregon's stomach twisted with jealousy at the sight, and his determination hardened.

"I want to see this," Prince Amrothos said, and the legs of his chair scrapped on the floor as he stood. His brother followed him as well, and there were twin glints in their eyes. Bregon swallowed, unheeding of the princess crossing her arms with an irritated _huff_. The King gently lifted her chin, though she tried to turn away. Bregon heard him say softly,

"I will only be a few moments, Lothíriel. Then we may resume our evening in peace."

"If you are not knocked out cold," she snapped back. "You impulsive, ridiculous, prideful man! No—you are a _goon_ , Éomer, _really_!"

The King laughed. "I am hardly likely to get knocked out, I promise you, goon or otherwise." Then to Bregon in a tone which resonated through the large room, "Come on, boy. Let us go out to the yard." And he stood, unfolding his great form from where it sat until he stood at full stature.

Bregon swallowed again, his throat dry. He was staring at the King's broad chest, seeming at the near distance as wide as a gate, and Bregon was forced to tilt his head back until his neck cricked to see the King's amused face, appearing to nearly brush the wooden beams of the ceiling. To cover his embarrassment and rising fright, Bregon turned on his heel and rushed from the public room, flushing to hear whispers and to see eyes turned towards him. But he would not retreat now.

It was a starry night, chilly for summer. More torches lined the fenced yard of the tavern, where a few horses were tethered at the far end. The princes of Dol Amroth sat upon the edge of the fence, laughing amongst themselves and exchanging a few coins. This bolstered Bregon's confidence; one of _them_ evidently thought he had a chance. He took a deep huff of breath before returning his attention to his opponent.

The King was rolling up his sleeves, exposing thick, tanned arms, corded with muscle. His eyes were on Bregon, clearly sizing him up. The indifferent dismissal was clear, and Bregon's brief fear at such visible power turned to contempt for this…this upstart who had stolen his princess!

Bregon held his fists up in starting position, trying not to see how pale and thin his fingers looked compared to the King's beefy fists. The King smiled one last time, and asked,

"Do you wish to withdraw?"

"Not a chance, you knave."

There were snickers from the princes. A shadow was blocking the light from the tavern, and Bregon turned to see Lothíriel standing there, her lips pursed as she shook her head. The King gave her a cheery wave as he positioned himself, but she only shook her head with a frown. Aha! So she was displeased with the actions of her betrothed—Bregon could foresee already her sympathies, lavished upon Bregon after he successfully disposed of this King…She would care for the King no longer, for her disapproval of his actions. Energy and shining hope were making Bregon jittery, and he said tauntingly,

"Tell me when you have had enough, sir, and I shall cease at once."

The King's lips twitched. "Very well."

Bregon struck out, and missed. The King dodged easily—too easy, really, for a man of his size and girth. Bregon narrowed his eyes, watching the King carefully, and struck again—and missed.

"Let him hit you at least once, Éomer!" called one of the princes. "Let the boy leave with _some_ pride."

Bregon resented that deeply—his vision flared red, and his fist jabbed towards the King once more. But from luck or skill (he hoped the latter), he at last struck the King's face. His knuckled shot with pain at the slapping _thwack_ of skin on skin, and the King blinked in surprise.

"Aha!" Bregon said exultantly, shaking out his aching knuckles. "I have struck the first blow! Is it bitter to the taste, sir?"

The King rolled his massive shoulders, as if to work out kinks of muscle. "Not really."

"Then I shall have to hit you again—"

And he jabbed, again and again—but every time the King swerved and ducked, seeming to anticipate Bregon's every aim. The princes were shouting again, but he could not hear what they were saying. Lothíriel was still there, too, Bregon thought, and his resolve strengthened—he had to prove himself to her, no matter the cost.

Bregon's steps were growing sloppy, and his limbs heavy. The spirits he had drunk before coming to the Guard's Rest were hindering his vision. He held back his attack for a moment, gasping for breath, and he barely saw the King glanced at the princess in the doorway. The King shrugged, and before Bregon could attempt to defend himself, a single, massive fist flew at his own face and connected with a painful _crack_!

The ground rushed up to meet him from behind. His back throbbed from the hard stone, and his ears were ringing—blood rushed and pounded in his head, and there was distant laughter. He tried to shake out his head, but the ache only worsened. Hot, wet blood was leaking from his nose, and Bregon blinked back stars.

The princess's voice echoed in the yard. "That is enough, Éomer, really! Let him go."

"I only hit him once, Lothíriel!" came the indignant reply. "Did you not see how many times he tried to hit _me_?"

"Yes, we all saw! Have some mercy."

"No mercy," Bregon gasped, rolling onto his side as nausea bloomed in his gut, making him dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut, putting his weight on his elbows as he hoisted himself up. "Just—just let me catch my breath—" He coughed painfully, and drew himself to his feet.

There were two Kings now, wearing identical expressions of annoyance and mirth, and four fists. Bregon raised his own, and figuring the futility of aiming, struck out blindly—and flailed into empty space, stumbling forward before falling again to the ground, this time planting on his face first.

"Ooo! That looked nasty." One of the princes—Amrothos, he thought—was evidently revulsed. Bregon scowled into the dirt, and laboriously again forced himself up.

"I will admit," he said, shaking himself and the dirt from his clothes. "You hit very well, sir."

"You are kind to say so," was the sardonic reply.

"But for the love of my princess—I _will_ persist until you cannot get up."

"Very well, then. Let us get it over with."

Bregon blinked back sweat and dirt from his eyes. There were spots of light and dark around him, and he shook his head, the dim form of the King coming back into view. He raised his fists once more. The King was laughing at some comment one of the princes had made, and so Bregon's luck was with him—he hit the King in the jaw, and the King stumbled.

"Oi! Bad protocol," protested a prince. "Never strike an enemy distracted!"

Bregon did not care. But the King did—his smile had warped into a ferocious frown when he turned to Bregon again, and Bregon barely had time to utter a gasping _oh, no!_ before that fist—large and hard as stone—was rushing towards him again.

The last thing Bregon heard was a sighing comment from Prince Erchirion: "The boy was born to lose."

When he next opened his bleary eyes, the sky was staring back; endless and dark and unsympathetic. The ground was cold against his body, and every part of him seemed to throb with pain. There was no noise from anyone around him—had they left him there?

"Oh, poor dear! Taking on a man like that—you are a fool, my lord, no mistaking that!"

Not alone, then. A gentle touch on his face, and he felt a cool cloth washing his throbbing nose. Bregon's head lolled, and he was gazing up into the face of the serving maid of the Guard's Rest, her face pinched with sympathy. Ah, well then—he supposed things had not turned out _so_ badly. Then he turned on his side and vomited into the dirt.

* * *

"Oh, poor dear!" was the identical, similarly applied exclamation from within the tavern. Lothíriel was sitting upon Éomer's knee beside their table, ignoring the scandalized looks being cast at them from multiple directions of the room. She dipped her handkerchief into a cup of water, her attention solely only in her betrothed. His lip was cut, and a faint bruise was forming 'round his eye. But despite that, he was looking very pleased with himself.

"Was that _really_ necessary?" she said, her voice more scolding than she intended as she dapped at the cut with her handkerchief.

"He wanted to fight _me_ , my love," Éomer reminded her. "Had I refused, he would have told everyone in the city that I was a coward."

"But that is ridiculous, no one would believe it—"

"Word would get around, anyway. And you do not wish to marry a coward, do you?" Éomer's plaintive question was coupled with a mournful look, and Lothíriel bit her lip to keep from laughing. Instead she picked up his hand, examining the knuckles for signs of damage. There was no torn skin, which surprised her, but they were red. Again she damped the handkerchief, if only to provide cooling relief.

"It was an excellent show, anyway," said Erchirion proudly, spinning one of his new gold coins on the table smugly. "You were kind to allow Bregon to go on as long as he did—and I have profited from that, so I thank you."

"Éomer _could_ have knocked him out in one hit, had he tried," Amrothos protested.

"Well, yes, but what Éomer _could_ have done was not our wager. It was what he _did_ do."

"You are all absurd!" Lothíriel said, casting her brothers a dark glare. "Taunting Bregon so—I think you two made matters much worse for him!"

"He will survive, I think," Éomer interrupted. He gently turned her face back towards himself. "But I require more nursing, if you please."

She pursed her lips. "Your cuts are clean," she said. "There is nothing I can do for your bruise." Tentatively she put her fingers to the yellowing skin on his cheek, which crinkled as he smiled. Lothíriel was weak for his smile—and flushing pink, she wound her arms about his neck as his eyes began to twinkle.

"If you have nothing else—a kiss will work wonders, I think."

Lothíriel laughed, and obligingly pressed her lips to his cheek.

"Ah, much improved," Éomer said with a sigh, his long arms looping around her waist. "If only you would apply such enchanting treatment to my other wounds—" He stuck out his lower lip. "This one in particular, if you please, for it is paining something awful—"

She did _not_ have to be asked twice.

"Drat," Erchirion muttered, and rolled the gold coin back to his brother with a scowl.

"Ha! I was right, as usual," Amrothos said jubilantly, catching the coin in his nimble fingers. " _I_ was fully expecting that somehow they would end up kissing in full public view tonight. Do not hesitate to compliment me on my wisdom, Erch, for I assuredly deserve it."


	18. A Lesson for Elfhild

"Mama, will you teach me to braid my hair?"

Lothíriel glanced up from the letter she was writing to her cousin, then glanced down to see her daughter gazing up at her beseechingly. Elfhild's clear green eyes, a heritage from her father, were difficult to resist at best—but the messenger would be departing for Gondor that afternoon and Lothíriel needed to finish her message.

"I can teach you later," she promised, lifting Elfhild's chin to kiss the top of her golden head. "When I am finished writing to Uncle Faramir."

Elfhild's shoulders slumped in disappointment. But her mama was already writing at her desk again, and so she turned and bounded away to ask someone else. There were many people around who could teach her. She simply had to keep asking.

"Da, will you teach me to braid my hair?" Elfhild leaned her head against her father's leg; he was standing at a window, squinting down at some letter or another. She just couldn't fathom why her parents were so involved with boring old letters when there was fun to be had! "Da?" she said again, when he didn't respond. Then louder, "Da!"

"Eh? What's that?" Éomer blinked down in surprise, then gave a broad smile for Elfhild. "What is it, sweeting?"

"Will you teach me to braid my hair?"

"I am sorry, sweeting. But I have to finish reading this report."

Elfhild pouted, and Éomer felt a knot of regret form in his stomach. He crouched down low, so that their eyes were level. "What if," he said slowly. "I let you braid my hair all you wish while I read my report. Would you like that?"

She brightened at once. "Oh, yes! Can I?"

"Of course."

Elfhild wove her fingers into her da's hand, dragging him forward. "Sit!" she commanded, pointing to the floor before leaping onto her parents' bed. Whenever her mama braided her hair, they both sat upon the bed—but her da was too big. Adjustments had to be made. Grinning, Éomer obeyed with a meek,

"Yes, Lady Elfhild."

It was most comfortable to sit upon her legs, and it also gave her the greatest height. She immediately set about pulling her da's hair from the plait it was already in, combing through his blond hair with her fingers.

"Ouch," Da said.

"Sorry."

Carefully, Elfhild divided his hair into three sections, patting them down neatly across her da's shoulders. Now came the difficult part. Her face screwed up in concentration, trying to remember what her mama had taught her. She picked up the section on the left and placed it on top of the middle section. Then the right section over—or was it under? Elfhild frowned; this was why she had asked for help! She moved the right section over. The the furthest left over, then right and left and right and left—

It was a mess. It did not look like her mama's skilled plaits at all! Elfhild sighed, combing her da's hair again with her fingers in an attempt to straighten his hair again.

"Ouch," Da said again. "Sweeting, if you require a comb—"

"'Tis all fine," Elfhild insisted. "I am only practicing."

A pause. Then Éomer sighed. "Go on practicing then, my love."

It was that moment that Elfwine entered the room with a crash and slam of the door, startling all that were respiring in the family chambers. "Hullo, Mother!" he said loudly, skipping to her desk and favoring her with a sloppy kiss. Lothíriel gave a benign smile, watching in amusement as he scampered away.

"Hullo, Father!"

"Have you finished your paces with Master Éothain?" Éomer asked, fixing his son with a beady eye.

"Yes, yes."

"And where is your brother?"

"He had to stay behind. Master Éothain is showing him how to clean out his pony's hooves because he made such a muddle of it last time," Elfwine said absently, for his attention was upon his sister and her dejected expression. "What are you doing, Hildie?" he asked in interest.

"Braiding Da's hair," she said. "But I can't do it."

"Here, I'll show you." Elfwine settled himself beside his teacher, unaware of his father's resigned grunt as he shifted on the ground. "I braid Sunfire's tail and mane all the time—I've gotten quite good at it."

"Oh, goody!" Elfhild was all too happy to allow her brother to teach her—at last! She would learn!

Elfwine again divided Da's hair into three sections, but instead of lying them neatly down he kept them in his fingers. "It is always outside over middle," he explained, demonstrating with a flourish. "You have to practice a lot if you want to be really good, and I don't know any of the fancy plaits Mother can do."

"That is what I was doing!" Elfhild was aghast; he was doing the exact same thing she had, but somehow it looked like a real braid. "Let me try again."

Éomer had nearly given up trying to read his report. The yanking and tugging on his scalp, which had been uncomfortable at first, was growing gentler and more relaxing. He hid a yawn, flipping over the parchment to see another page and a half of Erkenbrand's untidy scrawl and admittedly dull prose. Béma!

"Not bad, Hildie," Elfwine approved. "Take it out and try again. Practice, practice, practice!" It was what Master Éothain had shouted at him all morning; he felt very wise imparting such grown-up wisdom to his little sister.

Again and again at her brother's instructions Elfhild plaited, unplaited, and replaited her da's hair. Each time she improved, and her small fingers began to feel less clumsy holding clumps of hair. Finally she smiled with satisfaction, holding up the tail of the braid and exclaiming,

"Mama! Isn't it good?"

Lothíriel glanced, and with an approving nod and a smile agreed that it was, indeed, good.

"It's almost as good as mine," Elfwine said superiorly.

"Next you have to teach me to put ribbons in."

"Easy enough, once you know how to braid properly! Go find some ribbons and I'll show you."

Elfhild bounded off the bed, accidentally kicking her father in the shoulder but taking no notice. She rushed into her own chamber, attached to her parents', and returned with a handful of colorful ribbons which she loved so much to have in her own hair. Eorl had arrived at that point, looking a little dirty and not a little shamefaced as he dug his heel into the ground underneath Éomer's stern gaze.

"Do not forget to apply poultice again," the king said sternly as Elfhild hopped back onto the bed. "You could have seriously lamed Wulf. I trust you thanked Master Éothain for taking extra time to teach you how to properly tend to bruised hooves."

"Yes, Father." Eorl was pressing his lips together hard to keep from laughing. Normally he quite hated to be lectured by his father, but with the king's hair sticking out everywhere, it was difficult to remain serious. Éomer sensed that he was the source of his second son's hilarity, and so waved him away gruffly, knowing that further admonishment would be futile.

"Go on, then."

Eorl happily took a place upon the bed beside his sister. "Did you make this braid, Hildie?" he asked. "It looks quite nice!"

"Yes, I did," Elfhild said proudly.

Elfwine could not help but feel he was not getting the credit due for his own efforts, and so he interjected with indignity, "I taught her!"

"Are we doing ribbons now? I'll show you, Hildie, like this—"

"I am teaching her!" Elfwine growled. There was a grunt of pain from their erstwhile hairdressing victim, but none of the children paid any heed. Their father's hair was divided by the three, and the two boys set out to separately demonstrate ribboning braids for their sister.

Elfhild was in raptures. She ignored that her brothers were talking increasingly loudly over each other, drinking in the instructions they gave her. Again, her first attempt at winding a ribbon into her father's hair met with little success, but there were certain advantages to being the youngest child and only girl. Patiently again and again, Elfwine and Eorl were quick to instruct.

Lothíriel eventually did finish her letter, though much later than she expected. Yawning, she noticed that the sun was making its descent through the glass windows of the family quarters. She quickly sealed the letter, and intending to send one of her children to take to the messenger ere he depart, she glanced up.

Oh, dear. No fewer than six braids were presently bound in bright ribbons around poor Éomer's head. Some were neater than others, and Elfhild appeared determined to now plait the braids together. Elfwine and Eorl offered encouragement of this.

Éomer glanced up, and met his wife's eye. _Help me_ , was mouthed to her, but Lothíriel merely laughed aloud at the expression of pure horror and occasional flickers of pain upon his face.

"A handsome look," she assured him, standing and gliding towards the bed to kiss her husband quickly. "Elfhild, you have done splendidly." Then a kiss for all of her children as she pointedly ignoring her husband's growl, which undoubtedly was meant to be interpreted as, _Heartless woman! I will have revenge for this madness._

"I am going to deliver my letter. It is nearly suppertime, my dears—perhaps you father needs his, er, circlet for the occasion. We would not wish him to be seen any less than kingly."

A scampering of feet as Elfhild jumped off the bed and rushed to the queen's vanity, where such trinkets were kept. Éomer's eyes were positively murderous for her teasing, but Lothíriel's own were filled with tears of mirth as she swept into the corridor. At least _he_ had volunteered. She was more than grateful to be spared their children's tutorials. She would be sure to soothe Éomer...later.


	19. A Misfit Theatrical

_This is a short little drabble I wrote per a request for my 300 followers celebration on Tumblr. It was originally planned to be like, four chapter, but these little snatches are just as well, I think (and far less work). Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 _3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

"It is a _terrible_ idea."

Amrothos frowned reproachfully; he had not expected his sister to present such resistance. But her arms were crossed across her chest, and her brows raised in exasperation as she held his gaze.

"But Lothíriel…" he whined.

"But nothing! Why in Arda do you think that Elessar and the queen want to watch you mangle the stories of their ancestors, anyway? I will _not_ be involved."

"But if you do not agree to take part, I cannot do it at _all_ ," Amrothos said. He was not so proud that he could not pout, just a little bit. It usually had effect. He continued, "Mother also refused and Alphel insists she will only do a small part! I need a Lúthien, and no one else could perform as admirably as you, sister." He placed his hands beseechingly on her shoulders.

Her eyes closed briefly, as if summoning patience. "Amrothos…"

"Here," he said in a rush. "I will tell you plainly. The only others who have agreed—to play a _real_ role, that is—are Erchirion and Éomer, and since Beren was bearded he _must_ be played by Éomer. And as he is the only one to whom you are not related, you are the only one who can play opposite in the romantic scenes. And your hair is the right color! It is _fate_!"

Lothíriel was not impressed. Her lips were pursed, and he heard the sound of her slipper tapping on the stone floor. "It is not fate," she said finally. "I cannot sing nor dance and I have not a mite of magic in me."

"Oh, do not tease me!" Amrothos pleaded. "Lothíriel, please! You are my only hope."

"And what part are you playing?

Was that a hint of reconsidering he heard? He rejoiced privately as he forced calm to say, "Well, it is necessary that both Erchirion and I play multiple parts—I to be Finrod, Celegorm and Mandos, and Erchirion to be Sauron, Morgoth, and Curufin."

Lothíriel's expression had turned into a wince. "Oh, Amrothos, this sounds really, truly _awful_. How could you have thought of such a thing?"

"It is an _excellent_ idea," he said hotly. "The minstrel with whom I am writing the lines with agrees! And a minstrel knows _quality_ in theatre."

"A minstrel? And how much are you paying him for his assistance?"

Amrothos blinked. "Well—two dozen gold coins. Why?"

Lothíriel shook her head, and something akin to pity softened her features. "Oh, Amrothos."

"Will you do it?" he asked eagerly.

"How did you manage to convince Éomer to participate? That surprises me the most."

"Er—I do not know exactly," Amrothos admitted. "He was not entirely keen on the idea initially, I will admit, but after I explained how the story would be altered for simplicity's sake, and I described my vision for the set and the costumes and how you would portray Lúthien so wonderfully, he agreed."

"You told him I would portray Lúthien _before_ you asked me?"

"Well—I saw him this morning before I saw you. I had to improvise. Lothíriel, please!"

"And you _assumed_ I would agree? Do you not know me at _all_?"

At the end of his rope and quite desperate, Amrothos sunk to his knees, pleading. "Lothíriel, _please!_ This is my fondest dream!" A sudden thought struck him, and taking a terrible gamble he added, "Éomer will be devastated if you refuse. You are the only reason he agreed!" If he was not mistaken, there had been some degree of strangeness between his sister and the King of Rohan; while he was not much bothered by it in the general way, perhaps this burgeoning attraction could be taken advantage of.

Lothíriel blinked. Her brows drew together in thought, and at last, Amrothos's hands growing sweaty with nerves, she burst out, "Very well then!"

"Oh, dearest of sisters, _thank you_!" He leapt to his feet and kissed both her cheeks jubilantly. "You will not be sorry, I promise you that!"

* * *

 _Some days later._

It was a disaster.

Amrothos choked back tears as the makeshift foliage on the trees fell to the ground yet once more. The thin rope used to secure it was well on its way to driving him mad! Beside him Erchirion was glowering, and not seeing the trees, continued his angry spiel,

"This is horrifically uncomfortable!" Erch was saying. "The side piece is cutting into my skin—I am _bleeding_! Look!"

Amrothos obediently took his gaze away from the newly-crafted stage, set square in the middle of the palace's largest parlor. Erchirion pointed to his head, where indeed, part of the iron crown for Morgoth's costume had cut through his skin.

"There is hardly enough blood to whinge about," Amrothos said drily. "Just push it aside; it is not _actually_ iron, you know."

Erchirion tore the crown off his head and brandished it towards him. Exhaling a long-suffering sigh, Amrothos took it, and bent the soft metal until the offending bit widened significantly. "There," he said, and returned it. "Any more complaints?"

"Why, yes—I was wondering if when Éomer takes the Silmaril he will be using an _actual_ knife next to my head."

"No."

"Can you possibly shorten Lothíriel's dance in my scene? It seems terribly awkward for me, to sit up on stage doing nothing while everyone is watching."

"They will be watching Lothíriel, not you. Take a nap, for all I care." Amrothos did actually care, but he could not admit it. Erchirion seemed to be living up to the tetchy moodiness typical of any stage portrayal of Morgoth. Amrothos had not realized that putting together a theatrical would involve such _stress_! "Do you know all your lines yet?" he demanded of his brother.

" _Yes_ , of course. You have been pestering me so much I hardly have a choice."

The irony of Erchirion accusing _him_ of pestering was not lost. Amrothos gave a tight smile, and said, "We will rehearse the entire play tomorrow morning after breakfast. See that you are ready. I am going to find Lothíriel and Éomer to warn them." He turned on his heel and left.

His long sigh echoed in the deserted corridor, and purposefully he set off at a stride. Where were those two, anyway? Amrothos should have been more specific when ordering them to find a private place to practice their lines—the nearest two rooms were decidedly empty when he peeked inside. Then, pausing, he heard voices further down the corridor. It must be them.

The next door was partially ajar, and Amrothos glanced in to make sure—indeed, he saw his sister, squinting down at a parchment (likely her lines), and Éomer, leaning against a nearby table with his eyes on Lothíriel.

"This cannot be right," she was muttering to herself. "Even Amrothos would not demand a public _kiss_."

"I am not so confident in your brother's sense," Éomer replied.

"Well, I will not be kissing _anyone_ on stage."

"Fine."

There's a sharpness; a tension in this conversation. Amrothos can see how pink his sister's cheeks are, the look of interest in Éomer's expression.

This was going to go _extremely_ well. Even if they didn't know it yet. Amrothos smirked, and left them to their privacy.

* * *

Amrothos peered out at his growing audience with uncontainable glee. Everything had come together at last! King Elessar and Queen Arwen were in the seats of honor, naturally, and beside them the prince and princess of Dol Amroth. Faramir and Éowyn were in the audience as well, with the remainder of their extended family and the dozens of interested nobles Amrothos had invited for the occasion. Extra chairs had had to be brought in. It was all _perfect_.

It did not remain perfect.

Slowly Amrothos's glee turned to horror throughout the evening; his hound used to play Huan relieved himself in the curtains of the stage, a servant playing a servant forgot his only line entirely, and one of the minstrels providing background music broke a string on his lyre. Some snoring could be heard from the audience.

And, somewhere halfway through the production, Erchirion prodded him from behind and hissed, "Look at the king and queen - you're embarrassing them!"

With a sick feeling in his stomach, Amrothos turned his gaze to Elessar and Arwen. Elessar was looking stoic, though his lips were twitching. Arwen's eyes were wide as she fanned her face, watching as if in horrified interest as Éomer lost his hand onstage (Amrothos's dog tore off a wooden hand Éomer had tucked in his sleeve, and wandered offstage with it as Éomer dramatically swooned).

"Not everyone understands _art_ ," Amrothos hissed through gritted teeth.

Erchirion claps him on the shoulder. "You keep telling yourself that, brother."

When it was time for the final act, Amrothos swept onstage for the last time, past a few teetering false trees to take a place upon the makeshift throne. This was where the interpretation was a little loose.

"Father," Lothíriel projected loudly, planting herself in front of him and tossing her hair over her shoulder. She was a fine actress, Amrothos had decided - probably carrying the entire play by herself. He could admire that. She continued, "My love has done as you bade. We will marry."

Amrothos made a show of consideration, stroking his chin menacingly. The hall was silent, awaiting his response.

"I can deter you no more," he rumbled. "Marry your mortal, if you so wish."

Lothíriel swept to the side of the throne, seizing his bejeweled hand and kissing it. "I thank you, Father." And with a beaming smile, she turned and rushed to Éomer, and was enveloped in an enormous embrace, full of passion. Amrothos caught Erchirion's eye on the far side of the stage, and gave a nod. Erchirion stepped forward.

"Oh joy, oh happy day; a wedding soon, is the end of our lay." And he bowed deeply.

Several servants, all bearing strands of garland and branches of greenery, came onto the stage and waved them around, signifying the wedding. Good. That was the end. Why wasn't anyone applauding? Amrothos frowned at the audience, wondering if perhaps his queue wasn't obvious enough. All eyes were still on the stage. Imrahil's eyes were wide as he leaned forward in his seat; Éowyn was hiding laughter, even Faramir was amused, and Elessar's eye were twinkling. Arwen still hid her face behind her fan. What in Arda were they looking at?

Amrothos turned his head, and nearly fell out of his throne. The embrace meant to conclude the story of Beren and Lúthien had...changed. Éomer's arms were wrapped tightly around Lothíriel; she was standing on her toes as their lips melded together in a passionate kiss.

 _Oh._

A servant tripped on one of the background trees, and it fell to the ground with a resounding thud - someone yelped, and several branches were dropped. More trees toppled over as there was a rush to move out of the way. Erchirion was pushed into a group of maids, who shrieked and pulled away - he tried to grasp the curtains of the stage as he fell, but to no avail. He crashed onto the ground with a groan, and the curtains, dislodged so violently, shuddered, and collapsed onto the few still standing on the stage, Amrothos included.

At least the audience was awake now - he could hear roars of laughter. And Imrahil shouting. At him, probably. But Amrothos merely smiled as the velvet fluttered on his face, still sitting serenely on the throne.

A masterpiece, really. _Art_. He was fulfilled.


	20. Seige

Éomer took a steadying breath, using his free hand to push strands of hair from his sweaty forehead. Every particle of his body was on alert: his back was rigid, his hands clammy, a knot of apprehension in his stomach. To his credit, the sword in his right hand did not shake. He clenched around it a little bit tighter.

"Éomer," came a hushed whisper beside him. He turned, giving a wan smile to see Lothíriel's face so close to his. They were crouched behind a table, the only shelter from the attack sure to come. Her black hair was mussed all over her head, and if he weren't so distracted by other things, he might think of how lovely she was despite looking rather ragged. "I cannot bear the wait," she adds in a moan, her lips trembling. "I want this to be over."

"It will be soon, my love. It will be."

There are footsteps and shouts coming from the corridor, and Éomer takes another deep breath, turning again to meet Lothíriel's steel grey eyes. "Lothíriel," he said, keeping his voice level. "This may be the end for us. If it is, I will not go without kissing you first."

Despite the tense situation, her lips twitch into a giggle. Éomer leaned over, and pressed a very firm, lingering kiss to her lovely mouth.

"You are ridiculous," she vowed as he pulled away, though her cheeks were pink. He grinned.

"But you love me anyway."

"I do."

There's a feral shriek as the door to the room is kicked open, and running steps come nearer and nearer. Éomer braced himself, and leapt out from behind the table, giving a shout of his own.

It was a good hiding place. The shrieks of the two boys turned into screams of surprise, deterring them only for a moment. But then Elfwine hoisted his shield higher, and ever-impulsive Eorl charged with his wooden sword. Éomer blocked it with his own; battling the boys backwards as Elfwine joined in the fray.

"Ouch! Ow!" Éomer cried. "Don't whack me so hard!" He parried a lunge, turning to block Eorl from sticking him in the back. But his left side was left unguarded, and Elfwine plunged his wooden sword between Éomer's arm and his ribcage, giving a jubilant shout.

"I got you!" Elfwine cried. Éomer gave a groan, collapsing onto the floor with the sword still tucked under his arm.

"This is the end," he gasped. "Tell your mother I loved her."

Lothíriel's head appeared over the edge of the table, looking reproachful. "That's rather too melodramatic, Éomer," she said.

"I got the spoils!" Eorl said eagerly, tugging Éomer's sword from his limp hand.

"But I bested him; I should get the spoils," Elfwine argued.

"But - "

A thin, keening wail breaks through their argument. Éomer peeks open an eye to see Lothíriel sighing slightly, and she cuts off the boys' argument.

"Take your seige games to the hall," she said, standing from behind the table. "You've woken your sister."

They don't seem to mind the dismissal; as they continue to argue good-naturedly he reaches his arm out and snags his sword back from Eorl, jumping to his feet. They shriek again, and run for the corridors.

Éomer is close behind them. But he decides to pause, drawing Lothíriel into a very passionate embrace as he showers her face with kisses. She giggles, but allows it.

"Éomer, I need to fetch Elfhild. Stop! Oh, do stop!"

With a last kiss on her lips, he gives her a wink as he strides from the room where the shouts of their sons are still audible on the other side of Meduseld.


	21. Trying for a Kiss

A shiver crawled up Lothíriel's spine. Trying not to break her smile as she continued to speak to a Lord (she couldn't remember his name), she felt Éomer's warm hand gently press into her back.

Lord What's-His-Name greeted Éomer with the appropriate courtesies, and sensing that the newly-betrothed couple might prefer some privacy, bowed low before taking his leave.

"Did I startle you?" Éomer's breath was warm in her ear, and Lothíriel tilted her head so that he might not see the goosepimples breaking out across her skin.

"Hardly," she said primly. "I can hear you tromping around a mile away."

"Ah! Such sour words from my wife-to-be! What have I done to offend her?"

Lothíriel tried to look severe, up at Éomer's handsome face, but she could not persevere. She began to laugh, and obligingly wove her arm through his. "You have saved me from a very dull conversation regarding the methods of step-farming," she said. "But now you must amuse me in some other way."

His lips immediately tilted upwards into a knowing smile. "I can imagine a way I might amuse you," he said softly, the lowered tone of his voice nearly causing Lothíriel to forget to breathe. "Think you we would be missed, were we to take a stroll down the corridors?"

Lothíriel pretended to consider this seriously, glancing around the great hall of Ithilien, where the wedding guests were growing slightly rowdy, and very oblivious to everything else around them. The music of the minstrels could barely be heard for the chatter, though it did not deter the eager dancers spread across the marble hall. She could see her father conversing seriously with King Elessar far away.

"Shall Éowyn not miss us?" Lothíriel asked, turning to Éomer with a smile. "It is her wedding, after all."

"I doubt Éowyn will be giving you or I a second though for some time," he said dryly.

"Then a stroll sounds lovely. Do lead on, my lord."

Éomer patted her hand fondly, turning them towards an open door to the blessed darkness and silence beyond. Lothíriel could not help a little flutter in her heart; she often felt this way around Éomer, and since their betrothal had been announced the night before her feelings seemed to only intensify. She had to assume he was similarly afflicted - he had, pursued her until they had agreed to marry.

Her thoughts drifting to how nice Éomer's arm felt beneath her hand - warm and strong and corded with muscle - Lothíriel was sufficiently startled when Amrothos stumbled in front of them from behind a column, looking around in confusion. Their progress was stopped, and Amrothos blinked at them. They stared back.

"Ouch," Amrothos mumbled at last, pressing fingers to his jaw.

"Did you fall?" Lothíriel asked, not impressed.

"N-no. She hit me. I think...I think I blacked out for a moment."

" _What?_ Who hit you?"

"Erkenbrand's daughter," Amrothos said, and now he glared at Éomer, as if it were Éomer's fault. "Lady Frithild!"

"I am sure she would not have done so without due cause," Éomer said mildly.

"I only tried to kiss her - "

"What, in a dark corner?" Lothíriel interrupted. "I would have hit you, too."

The indignant tone of Amrothos's voice was carrying as he spoke. "We were dancing, she was laughing - I thought she liked me!"

"She probably does," Éomer said. "If she didn't, you would have been dragged outside and tossed in a dung pile. Perhaps next time you might ask before kissing a Rohirric woman, eh?"

This baffled Amrothos for a moment, but then he gave a short nod as he grumbled, "I've learned my lesson." Then his eyes, growing clearer, fastened suspiciously upon them. "Where are the pair of you off to?" he asked. "The dancing is behind you."

"Very astute," Lothíriel said coolly, hoping dearly that her cheeks would not stain with red. "We will be going, then." With a nod of her head, she allowed Éomer to turn her 'round to weave through the crowd in the other direction. She had no desire to dance - nor did Éomer, she suspected, and so when they were a fair distance from Amrothos they made for another door. There was a crowd of matrons nearby, chattering and tittering.

The door, to her surprise, opened before they could reach it, and her father strode through. He caught sight of them, and grinning, strode towards them.

"My daughter," Imrahil said fondly, bending down to kiss her cheek. "Éomer, my sworn-son. I have seen little of you tonight."

"I think I have not sat down since supper," Lothíriel said honestly. "There are too many guests to speak to!"

Imrahil chuckled. "True enough. And yet I have been monopolizing Elessar with the details of contracting merchants." He patted several rolls of parchment, tucked into his belt. "I have never been one to mix business and pleasure, but if the king so commands…"

"Aragorn has not asked for me, as he?" Éomer asked, somewhat anxiously.

"Oh, no, my boy. This is your sister's wedding, you ought to be enjoying yourself," Imrahil smiled broadly. "Why are you not dancing? The floor is not _so_ crowded, I think."

"We were only taking a turn around the perimeter," Lothíriel said quickly. "The air is fresher here."

"Hmm, too true, too true. I must be off. Do not dance until your feet fall off, my dear." And Imrahil kissed Lothíriel one more time, before disappearing into the crowd back towards the dias. Éomer let loose a long breath.

"Béma," he said faintly. "I was sure your father was going to whip me for trying to abscond with you."

"He could not have known, I am sure," Lothíriel assured him. Éomer grinned, leaning closer to speak quietly near her ear.

"Sometimes I wonder if he can read minds."

"Oh!" she gave a giggle. "I am sure he cannot."

"One never knows with Imrail."

"He is merely perceptive, I think," Lothíriel said. Éomer nodded, and once again adjusted their path across the dance floor once more, in case Imrahil was watching. It would do no good were they to be seen 'sneaking' out; surely a chaperone would be sent along, and Lothíriel had little desire for a chaperone at present.

Halfway across the floor, a loud, clanging bell rang out, and the noise of the guests increased, if at all possible. Lothíriel winced a little, but thankfully the bell stopped after only a few peals. Then there were hoots and cheers, and the crowd parted: Faramir, dressed resplendently, had picked up Éowyn from where they had been dancing away the evening, and began to carry her away. The bride's head was leaning against her bridegroom's shoulder. Lothíriel flushed pink, but could not help feeling a tad of jealousy. Why could she and Éomer not find a few minutes alone?

"There you are!"

Lothíriel had to take a deep breath, and she felt Éomer's arm tighten under her hand. Erchirion came from her left, waving and smiling as he tugged her from Éomer ruthlessly, and her hold on him was broken.

"Come, sister! We have not danced yet this night. I do not wish to break our tradition!" The tradition was, of course, that she and Erchirion danced together at every ball they attended. Until this particular one, it had been a pleasure for her. Now she really just wanted Éomer. As Erchirion continued to pull her away, Lothíriel glanced over her shoulder gaze apologetically at her betrothed - he was a little tight around the lips, but he gave her a small smile in return, nonetheless.

The music had started again now that the bridal couple was out of sight. Resigned, Lothíriel allowed Erchirion to sweep her into the lively steps, but thought only of Éomer's disappointment. Hers, too.

"Éowyn and Faramir will be quite happy, do you not agree?" Erchirion asked.

"I do not doubt it. They love each other very much."

"It was a lovely wedding…"

The small talk brough Lothíriel little peace. Occasionally she would snatch glances of Éomer over her brother's shoulder, conversing with his marshals or lords of Gondor. A very dull end of the evening. For her father had retired soon after the bridal couple, and King Elessar and Queen Arwen departed as she danced with Erchirion. The festivities were, in effect, over.

"Let me take you to your rooms," Erchirion gallantly volunteered.

Lothíriel gave a nod as the music slowed and stopped. As much as she loved all of her brothers, they were becoming quite intrusive that night! All except Elphir, who had stayed in Dol Amroth - to her relief.

She did not see Éomer as they left the hall.

It was lonely in her chamber that night; the air was still after the high energy of the great hall, and she had told her maid not to wait up for her. Lothíriel lit a candle as she undressed out of her finery, sadly lying it out on a chest. Had Éomer liked her dress? She had not even had the chance to ask him - the little snatched exchange they'd had was too short.

Slipping into her nightdress, Lothíriel carried the candle to a bedside table, yawning as she pulled down the covers. Sleep would be delicious, at least. She would see Éomer tomorrow -

There was a _tap tap_ on the shutters of the window. Curious, and not a little annoyed, Lothíriel crept over to shoo away what was likely an insomniatic bird. But when she unlatched the shutters and opened them, it was no bird - it was Éomer.

"Oh!" she gasped, automatically pulling the neckline of her nightdress closer. "Éomer, whatever are you doing here?"

"I missed you," he said plaintively. He must be standing on one of the many vines which grow on the side of the guesthouse. Lothíriel studied his woeful expression a moment more, and began to giggle. "Don't laugh," Éomer added, though a smile was creeping on his own face. "I must have died a thousand deaths when I saw you leave with Erchirion, without even a goodnight kiss."

"Ridiculous," Lothíriel said promptly. "And are you not cold? The night is chill!"

Indeed it was - for the autumnal equinox would be upon the land in less than a week. She was already shivering from the air let in, and Éomer was wearing no greatcoat over his velvet finery.

"I am a little cold," Éomer said, though he showed no signs of sensing the chill. "Won't you invite me in?" There was a twinkle in his green eyes, and Lothíriel eyed him for a moment before giving a nod.

"For a minute or two, I suppose. Then you must leave."

"If my lady so commands." And his grin growing, Éomer hooked one long leg, and then the other, straddling the windowpane and heaving himself into the chamber. Lothíriel immediately latched the window closed, and fetched a thick dressing gown to pull over her shoulders.

Éomer, hovering by the window, was watching her with a glint in his eyes. She smiled, rather liking the way his admiration made her feel.

"You really shouldn't be here," Lothíriel pointed out.

"I am a weak man," he murmured. "My lady draws me near." He held out a hand to her, and after a moment of hesitation Lothíriel laid hers in his much larger one. Before she could give anything more than a squeak of surprise, Éomer's arms were wrapping her close, and his mouth descended on hers.

Oh, this was _lovely_. Annoyance at being sabotaged out of such a delicious treat during the wedding feast was quickly subdued by the powerful feelings shuddering through Lothíriel; her hands travelled upwards on Éomer's broad chest, revelling in the feel of his breadth towering over her.

And now she knew why men weren't supposed to sneak into ladies' chambers.

She pulled away, trying to catch her breath. "Éomer," she murmured. "Éomer…"

His lips were on her neck, nipping at the soft skin there and making her moan. Oh, this was _really_ nice. She forgot why she was protesting. Éomer's mouth skimmed her jaw, kissing her cheek and finally finding her mouth again. His hands were tangling in her already-messy hair, causing her scalp to tingle. Lothíriel stood on her tip-toes to kiss him back fervently, and she heard a low chuckle from his chest which made her shiver again - this time, not from cold.

"My little swan," he said in a low voice, kissing the tip of her nose. "Soon it will be our wedding."

"I cannot wait," Lothíriel replied, letting a silly smile spread across her face. It was not unlike Éomer's smug grin, she was sure.

"Nor can I." He breathed out deeply, and placing his hands on her shoulders, pushed her away slightly. "You said only a minute. I have overstayed my welcome."

 _You can stay forever_ , Lothíriel wanted to say, but she nodded past the lump in her throat anyway. She held tightly to Éomer's hand as he retreated back to the window, and as he opened it and began to slip out.

He paused once he was sturdily planted upon the vine once more, and impulsively Lothíriel leaned out to kiss him, just one more time. Éomer was chuckling again as he dropped to the ground. She leaned her elbows on the windowsill, watching as he gave her a wave before disappearing in the shadows back to - well, wherever he had come from. His rooms, perhaps. The dwindling party, maybe.

The moon was bright, and Lothíriel breathed in the enchanting happiness.

Soon it would be their wedding.


End file.
